


Pride and Place

by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)



Series: A/B/O bodice rippers [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Isaac, Alpha Peter, Alpha Scott, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Derek doesn't like Yorkshire very much, Derek has no preparation for Stiles and a baby, Derek is an idiot, Discussion of mpreg, F/M, Lucifer the cat, M/M, Mpreg, Other, Puppies, Pydia, The Napoleonic war gets mentioned, adopted ward, discussion of the Hale Fire, entirely Derek's POV, haute ton, high society - Freeform, marriage mart, mention of napoleon, mentions of Kate Argent - but she's already dead, mostly so there are enough men to dance at the Meryton ball, no men were pregnant in the making of this fic, opera - Freeform, other tags might be added later, regency au, sterek, there are no plans to add anything that might be triggering at this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 62,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/DarkAthena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale, Earl of Osterbrook, has inherited, following the death of Lord Montfort, a run down house in Yorkshire he neither needs nor wants, convinced his staff are robbing him, and with the mystery of a missing ward, he manages to get himself talked into a ridiculous bet, that he cannot pass as a steward until Midwinter, nearly two months away. So can he maintain the charade? Find the missing child? and manage to turn the shambles of a house around, or will he give up and let Peter take the thousand pounds he bet.</p><p>now with explicit epilogue - the rest of the story is teen rated though, so if you don't like the idea of explicit sex in your bodice rippers - just don't read that bit</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Some obvious tags were left off to avoid spoilers.
> 
> This is a nano so don't be afraid to point out typos or bad grammar, self betaed so if you see a mistake, let me know and I'll fix it.
> 
> I don't like the idea of heat ridding Omegas of their agency so although they go into heat it's not an all consuming need, but instead is something they're in control of that makes alphas want to please them. An omega is biologically and hormonally bound to their alpha, just as their alpha changes to suit the omega. It's much more equal than they might think it.
> 
> A note on courtesy titles
> 
> Alphas (vertical pointed ears) are called My Lord/LAdy or the equivalent (ie a duke would be called your grace)  
> Omegas (horizontal pointed ears) are called Vidame (vee-dah-MAY) for male, and Vidama (vee-dah-MAH) for female
> 
> A courtesy title is one that is inherited from the parents without an actual land grant, so in Downtown Abbey Lady Mary is the earl of grantham's daughter but won't inherit, she is Lady Mary in her own right, even if she married Phil Boggins from the local grocers, she would then be able to chose to be Lady Mary, or Mrs Boggins. He wouldn't have a title at all because he didn't inherit it.  
> You always use the highest title you've got and only lose it if you trade up.  
> So if Lady Mary married the duke of devonshire she would become the duchess of devonshire and be addressed as your grace instead of my lady.  
> You never trade down, only up, but with a courtesy title (ie one not associated with a landgrant) you can choose not to use it - but it's considered "not done"
> 
> Alphas wear Regency clothing, (http://costumersguide.com/cr_pride.shtml)  
> Betas are dressed more for the early victorian period (http://costumersguide.com/cr_vanityfair.shtml)  
> Omegas wear Restoration fashion (http://costumersguide.com/cr_brotherhood.shtml)
> 
> \--  
> a note on pairings
> 
> Alphas hold the highest position in societies and prefer to marry Omega, it is not done to marry a beta but is still barely acceptable.  
> It is illegal for an omega to marry a beta.  
> It is not done for a same sex pair to marry (ie alpha alpha) unless it is a second marriage and the first produced children, except in the case of beta beta.  
> It is not done for a same gender pair to marry unless it is a second marriage the first produced children,  
> PDAS are not done at all - it is considered very uncouth and French
> 
> \--
> 
> To anyone from Yorkshire - I apologise, but Derek just doesn't like the place.

Frederick Hale, Earl of Osterbrook, Viscount Langley and Baronet Pinnock was certainly not in the mood to meet with his solicitor, Mr Deaton, and certainly not in regards to him inheriting yet more land in conjunction to the surfeit he already managed that left him with little time for anything else. Although men his age were normally layabeds who spent most of the night in various forms of debauchery he was often far too busy poring over books of accounts to bother with even the mildest forms of it. What socialising he managed was with his solicitors, of which he liked Deaton best, but that was not a difficult contest because Derek found most of them vile and contemptible, even when time had proven them good and honest.

Alan Deaton was not what would be called a good man, but he was diligent in his duty and little given to conversation, which suited Derek much more. He sat in Derek's study drinking port and lemon as he explained the rather unfortunate circumstances surrounding the death of Lord Montfort, who as far as Derek was concerned had the wonder of only being a lord so although he bequeathed an estate to Yorkshire in an entailment as the nearest male relative, there were no more cumbersome titles.

"There is a complication." Deaton told him, it couldn't be the debts because Derek was as rich as Croesus, and he could easily sell Wolfe Hall, the estate in question's, tenancy to cover them. "It's very strange because I've gone over his accounts several times over, and although he has natural debts, the sort most men acquire with their vowels, he seems to bleed through money, that everything he paid for cost much more than it should. His accounts list Wolfe Hall as self sufficient but when I visited it the house was almost derelict. He was paying fifteen staff according to the ledgers, and paying them handsomely too, but when I got there I counted at most five. The list of goods entailed did not at all match those in the Hall, and to make matters worse."

"Worse?" Derek asked with a raised eyebrow, because after all it was already awful. It sounded very much like the servants had taken and sold the estate's furnishings and wealth, and were drawing three times the wage.

"There are talks of masqued midwinter balls but Lord Montfort hadn't left Bath in over ten years, around the same time he drew up his will."

"Then fire them and replace them from any employment agency in London." Derek suggested calmly. Normally it was normal for the new tenant to replace the staff even if they were found capable.

"We can't, my lord." Deaton told him. "There is an issue with the will."

"Were they blackmailing Lord Montfort for their position that they might steal his belongings and live like lords in his absence?" It was the stuff of a bad play, perhaps a French farce, Derek thought to himself, and it always ended the same way, with the untrustworthy staff cast out.

"No, or at least it seems that they were all that was keeping Montfort in port and women, the problem is there is a consideration for a ward."

"There is a ward?" Derek asked. A ward was a child left in his care, and would need to be taken into his own household and raised delicately in society, despite Montfort. He was currently considering if his elder sister, Lady Laura Beecham, might accept the child. He would offer money which of course she would refuse because she didn't lack of it. Perhaps it would be an alpha girl, Derek mused, to offset her four alpha sons, or even an omega.

"That is the complication. None of the rest of Montfort's papers, which were left with his man, Harris, suggests anything of one, so when I travelled to Wolfe Hall whilst everything was in probate," that meant the time between Montfort dying and the reading of the will, the estate was entailed so Derek was always going to get it. "I took the opportunity to ask about the ward. The servants denied that there ever was one. Wondering if the child had perhaps died I visited the parsonage in the village but the man there is new and without a name I couldn't simply search the gravestones."

"So the child is unaccounted for?" Derek asked, finally putting his pen down, after wiping the nib, laying it across the ledger he was working on.

"I can find no trace, but the will makes provision for the child and it's dowry of fifteen thousand pounds, an amount I can verify is held in trust by the Bank of England, but without written proof from the child or their legal guardian they won't give me any information, other than the money is held there. Even when I explained that you were their guardian and had no interest in their wealth, I tried to explain the whole situation." Deaton took a sip of his port and lemon before he continued, "They say it would be too easy to forge a marriage note with such information. All it would take is one corrupt solicitor or clergyman."

Derek had to agree with that. "Work with Montfort's man and solicitor to find the truth of the estate. I'll travel to Wolfe Hall within the week to find out what is happening with the ward and the house, to see if it might be rented out. Find a solicitor for me in York who will be able to access my funds so I can do what I need to."

"Yes, my lord," Deaton said closing over his notebook in his hands. Deaton had been Derek's mother's solicitor which meant that Derek would always associate him with the folderol that followed the fire. With eleven people dead Deaton had stood like a rock and guided him, Laura and their younger sister Cora - currently in Switzerland with her nurse - into the questionable care of their uncle, who was just as bereaved as they were, whilst Deaton sorted the legalities of it.

Derek had an army of solicitors and stewards and Deaton dealt primarily with inheritance and he had brought him not only a new estate but an inherited child, a ward - a society child left in Yorkshire of all places. He made a huffing noise of disapproval at the world before looking at his ledgers again. He would be glad to get out of London for the late autumn, it was always drab and Peter could be insufferable when the demi season was in full swing.

He would visit the club tonight, he decided, and see his uncle Peter, and inform him, and Derek's own friends, of his plan that they wouldn't call on the house in his absence. After all, for all that Peter was a reprobate and a gambler, he was still his uncle.

\--

 

Many of Isaac Lahey's ideas were born in red wine, which made them all the more reasonable by lamplight. Often what would be ludicrous without liquor was brilliant with a bellyfull of brandy. What few bets Derek ever took were always instigated by an epiphany of Lahey's that Derek's uncle, Peter, and his close friend, Scott McCall seconded until Derek drunkenly agreed. When he told them, in the middle of a drunken game of whist, about the missing ward, the untrustworthy servants and how the worst of it was Yorkshire, Isaac regaled them with the plot of a very amusing play he had just seen where a lord, returning from the continent, had discovered his staff were dishonest, so he had taken the role of a steward, covering the points of his alpha ears with his hair and prepared to claim illegitimacy if needed so that the staff would be revealed in their perfidy, at which point they were all cast out and the play, which Isaac said was a delightful comedy of errors with the lord almost being found out many times, had been popular, but he doubted it had gotten so far as Yorkshire.

So for a thousand pounds, Derek agreed - in writing, to go to Wolfe Hall in Yorkshire, as a steward to find out about the midwinter ball, because they didn't believe he could maintain the ruse that long. It was only the next day, when he told his groom to make sure Avril, his favourite mount, was ready for the ride, that he realised he wasn't sure if he mentioned the ward at all, and hangover or not he would be outside the city before his uncle rose for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek arrives in Yorkshire. He's not impressed.

Wolfe Hall was a small manor that the local man who was paid to show him the way, a way he was going with a wagon and horses that Derek supposed was one of his own tenants, although the man liked to gossip and Derek just made affirmative noises that suggested he was listening - he wasn't, told him had medieval roots and how the Montfort family that owned it could trace their lineage back to the Domesday book. Derek didn't waste the breath to tell him that Montfort was dead but did say that he had been hired for the position of steward of the estate.

The farmer eased up then, "Montfort's dead then," he said without a trace of a question in his tone. "so did the estate go to that good for nothing nephew of his or did he die out in France in the war?"

"The entailment took it to the Earl of Osterbrook." The farmer nodded but clearly had no idea who that was. "Lord Frederick Hale, he's said to be good to his tenants," for heaven knew that Derek tried hard to be, "He sends me in to make sure the estates look after themselves before he offers them out to rent."

"Could burn it down and salt the earth after and you'd do better than the Montfort's did." It was a drawl that was laced with venom. The farmer, despite being garrulous, was a well presented man who was clean shaved, his hair swept back neatly from his face and covering his ears politely. He was dressed well, in rough fabric that had been well worn and washed, and had started their journey together wearing a hat, which he promptly threw into the sacks behind him. He had encouraged Derek to sit up on the driver's seat with him, with Avril tethered to the back of the wagon happily following along, and talked. He talked a lot. Derek mostly hadn't listened. He would have liked to have said that he was ill with people because he spent so much time with his accounts, but he had never been good with them. "You'll be wanting to speak to young Stiles up at the 'ouse. He's the housekeeper, well, as much as Wolfe Hall has one. It's getting late," the farmer had lit his lantern over an hour since, and it was almost full dark around them. "You sure you don't want to go straight on to the village, it's only a mile from here, and you'll get a warmer welcome come morning. What did you call yourself again, I'm rubbish at names, I trust my Bonnie to remember things like that, she says I'd forget my own name if she didn't scream it at me so often." He laughed at his own joke, but didn't look across at Derek sat next to him on the bench.

"Ruthven." Derek told him, it was one of his middle names and so it was something he'd answer to. "I'll take my chances at the big house," he said. "But it's good to know that the village is near, and how many miles to Whitby?" Whitby Harbour was the largest town of any consequence, it was likely that any staff would have to come from there, but it was only three days carriage journey to Harrogate and society there. However after so many days on the road Derek wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a fresh bed, neither of which he expected to get from the village inn - assuming it even had one. With it being so late he couldn't see the sea but more and more he could smell it, and if Wolfe Hall had a lamp lit for travellers it was at the rear of the property.

\---

Wolfe Hall rose from the land first as a squarish black blot on a dark background, nestled into a natural dip in the land, with several large granite blocks around it, but all of the windows were dark. "I'll wait here for you." The farmer said pulling his cart up at the postern gate, "see you safely inside. Not sure anyone will open the door with it being so late."

"It's not that late." Derek told him checking his fob watch against the wagon's swinging lantern, which Derek suspected was entirely for him. "It's not even nine o'clock yet." With the autumn in full swing, and already making the downturn into autumn it was getting dark earlier and although it wasn't as dark as it could have been it was dark out. Derek knew they didn't keep London time but nine was still early.

He crossed the yard, noting that the carriage path was very overgrown, with grass sticking up between the cobbles, but didn't unhitch Avril, and went to the door. It was imposingly framed by a limestone frontage with a knocker that was rough against his fingers when he found it, although shadowed by the two pillars, one on either side of the door, he couldn't have said what it's design was. HE rapped it once loudly, twice, a second pause, then a third time. Then he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He checked his watch, although it was too dark to make out details. Then he rapped it again.

"Looks like they're shut up for the night." The farmer said from the gate, "they always was a bit queer up here, it don't surprise me, up with the sun and down with it too. Come on, hop up, I'll take you down to the Seven Stars in town. I'm sure Mistress Ives will be able to put you and your mare up for the night."

It was apparently that it was either go with the farmer to the town in the hope of a bed, rather than stay at the hall and be forced to either sleep on the stoop or in the stables with Avril. Derek wasn't too proud to admit defeat so he went back to the wagon and with the bags of wheat and flour at his back he prepared himself for the ride with the road dipping down to the sea and the village beside it.

\---

Staithes was a small fishing village carved into the hills along the mouth of a river, it wasn't much, with a single Anglican church and an attempt at a harbour, and the single inn called itself "The Seven Stars" like many seafarers inns all over England. The farmer, who introduced himself only as Derek decamped as Simms, left him at the door to the Seven Stars as the boy who worked there took Avril's reins. "There's an extra penny in it for you if you stable her alone and don't put wine in her oats." He handed the boy a penny not caring for the actual cost of the service. Derek had long since learned that you got what you paid for so he paid for the best and did so gladly. His mother had taught him that manners cost nothing, but Peter had taught him that bribes bought more than manners.

The inside of the Seven Stars was a large, low ceilinged open room with a few inhabited tables here and there with fishermen propping them up and drinking from pewter mugs, and of course everyone went quiet when he entered.

A portly woman, with her hair bound back in an old linen cap, came across to meet him, "You be all right love?" she asked.

"I was hoping for a meal and a bed for the night." He told her.

She smiled for him, it was surprisingly honest. "Not a problem, love," she gestured to a blonde girl serving tables with heavy plates of some sort of food, "my Heather will get the room ready for you in a trice and we've got some fish stew on the fire. You' be sitting yourself down and I'll bring you a plate and a mug." She walked him over to small table under a swaying lantern, then wiped the table down with a cloth she took from a pocket in her apron. "You in Staithes for business, love?"

"I'm the new steward up at Wolfe Hall." HE told her.

"Lords above, you hear that lads, a new steward," she called out to the room, "Old skin flint must'av died if he's hiring new staff. That means my Heather, who is a maid up at the 'Ouse, during them daylight hours because our Stiles needs the help, god bless him, might get them wages she's owed."

Derek, sitting at the table, pulled a small journal from his valise and a pencil, "so, just for my records, Mrs." he left it open and she filled it in with the name Ives, and he was careful to write it down, "how many people work up at the house?"

"Well," Mrs Ives said, wiping down the table again, "including my Heather, there's Stiles, that nice American boy who comes down with the black currants for the stew, and helps around the town, good strong lad he is. Then there's Erica, Miss Reyes, she goes up there to help, uses the wash house to take laundry in, but only does it twice a week. Old Jasper, he mans the brewhouse, Wolfe Hall brews all the ale we sell, and you won't find a nicer cup in all of Yorkshire, but I don't know what they'd do without him, so that's 'em all, I sends up my Jem now and again, I mean with Polly, Im sure she helps out as much as she can, and wee Mary, I doubt you could count Oliver in even the most generous count, so seven, at a long stretch."

Derek noted down the names in his ledger. THat was eight names in total where Deaton had said they were drawing a wage for fifteen, which was still at least ten less than there should be for that size of house.

"But they aint been paid for this last six month," she continued, which was even more strange. Deaton was good with ledgers, if he said fifteen staff were being paid, there was fifteen sets of wages being paid - somewhere. "Now I aint one to gossip," she told him as a boy, her Jem Derek guessed, came over with a mug full to the brim with ale, putting it on the table, next to a spoon he took from a back pocket.

"Of course not," Derek told the innkeeper. He could be as charming as his uncle, even if Laura always maintained that he was a total curmudgeon. She told him that he lived his life in ledgers because it meant he didn't have to deal with people. She might have had a point, people could be a bother.

"But the truth of it is, if it weren't for young Stiles, god bless him, that house would have been left to the animals long since. Boy's got a heart bigger than the empire, and he does his best. Aint no one in this town that don't think of him like one of their own. I offered for him to come live down here, more than once, Stiles I told him, there will always be a home for you here, but he insists on living up at the big house."

"Stiles is the housekeeper, correct?" Derek asked, "Mr Talbot."

"If you could say that about the staff up there," Mrs Ives told him, "Boy keeps that house, he does, if not for that sweet American lad, but I can never remember his name, they'd have starved long since. After Montfort came through and took everything of value if Stiles had a little less pride or someplace else to go he'd have been gone long since." She realised what she had said. "Now you won't hear me speaking ill of the dead, I aint one for gossip, and I don't carry tales, but that boy goes above and beyond for that house, and you won't do better for it than our Stiles."

Derek nodded, watching the inn's boy bring him a plate of thick fish stew, as unappetising as it looked it was thick with summer vegetables and huge chunks of fresh fish, even if it was swimming in a thick grey broth, it smelled good and was hot, and he was suddenly struck with how hungry he was. "I'll be leaving you with your supper, and I'll knock you up with a our Heather so you can go up with our Will on his way up to Whitby, he goes up in the morning and back late. You probably came in with Simms." Derek told her he had, "Now I'll leave you to your supper, when you're ready for your bed, you tell our Jem and he'll take you up"

"One last thing, Mrs Ives," Derek stopped her, "my employer, Lord Osterbrook, asked me to enquire about a child left in Montfort's care. He wants to make sure that they are taken care of. He's not short of blunt and between us, he's more worried about the child than the house. He's not short of property."

"That old fish story." Mrs Ives rolled her eyes as she talked. "There aint no child," she told him calmly, "wouldn't be surprised if Montfort made one up to get himself some money. You can write your master and tell him that. You can ask anyone, there aint no child." She stopped, "Well, that aint quite true. There's them wee'uns that Stiles took in because there aint no one else for them, that'll be Polly, Mary, and wee Oliver." Those names were among the staff listed, the ones that Mrs Ives had mentioned earlier. "He took them in when their poor Mam died, their Pa weren't left fit for aught, so Stiles took 'em in to the Big House. He's a good lad is our Stiles."

Everything with Wolfe Hall, Derek noticed, cycled back to the mysterious Stiles.

"Now I shouldn't 'a been telling you that," Mrs Ives said, noticing at last what her gossiping had earned her, "about him taking in them bairns, but with Oliver being such a wee mite, and the times being so hard for everyone."

"Rest assured, Mrs Ives, I won't be firing him for being a good Christian."

"It don't affect him duties none," she maintained, "he keeps that house spotless, and no one up there goes hungry if he can help it." She was wringing out her cloth in her hands, she was that nervous about what she had revealed, even though she hadn't meant any harm. There were people, Derek knew, who would have fired this Stiles for taking in random children.

"I'm here, Mrs Ives," he told her, trying to put her at ease, "to make the estate function, to bring it to standard, and if that means finding a place in the nursery for some foundlings then so be it. BElieve me, Lord Osterbrook would be more likely to fire him for turning them away." Mrs Ives didn't look reassured. "I won't be letting anyone go until I know how the house works, if at all. All those old houses have their own personalities, and without knowing how it goes a new staff would be useless." Mrs Ives agreed sullenly. "I'll be leaving you to your supper, Mr Ruthven, and will have my boy knock you up to go to the big house with our Heather." Derek made a note in his ledger that the inn keeper denied knowledge of the ward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek isn't much more impressed with Wolfe Hall than he is by Yorkshire

By morning Wolfe Hall managed to look less welcoming than it had the night before. All of the shutters were lashed shut inside the glass, the slates on the roof were uneven and clearly broken in places, suggesting many leaks and drips, and the local dark grey stone seemed designed to hold in both the cold and the damp, and many of the blocks were covered in dark moss, towards the ground, or lichen everywhere else.

Heather, and her older brother, Will, were blonde betas, two of the children of the Innkeeper Mrs Ives. heather wore her hair pulled back in a strict braid which was then gathered under a piece of cloth, but in a fashion that showcased the curves of her pretty beta ears. His own dark hair was patted down flat over the vertical points of his alpha ears. It was common to cover the tops of the ears as it gave so much of one's status away.

In society people covered their ears because it was a signifier of rank. The horizontal points that suggested an omega told everyone that that person was part of the very upper echelons of society, due to their rarity. The vertical pointed Alphas had spent centuries gaining control of the major institutions, through aggression and greater strength, forming beta armies, and as the alphas preferred to mate with omegas they became the nobility. The more commonplace betas had curved ears and made up the majority of society. It wasn't unheard of that some alphas existed in the minor nobility or gentry - bastards happened after all.

On one hand it meant nothing that Heather bared her ears, she wore her position in society - a maid - with pride, but because so many people covered them, in London especially, it was considered rather erotic to reveal them. Heather didn't seem to know or care, she wore her hair the way she did in preparation for hard work and keeping it from her face.

They went around the back to the kitchen entrance, and even with it being so early, certainly no later than seven in the morning, there were two girls playing in the half light with a toddling child with rabbit skins tied around his feet, as he laughed chasing the skirts of the older girls. When he saw Heather he started to crow, moving straight towards her, stretching out his arms and exclaiming, "Up! Up!"

She picked him up, swinging him around unto her hip in a practised move. "Where's Stiles?" she asked.

"Who's 'at?" the younger girl, the one Derek's notes called Mary, asked.

"This, girls," Heather said, "is Mr Ruthven, he's come from London to help with the house."

"Montfort wondering if he can fleece more money from the 'ouse?" Polly asked, crossing her arms across her chest. She was wearing an apron that appeared to be more stain than fabric, but the two girls were dressed warmly, if the clothes they were wearing were ragged. He had seen better on the urchins in London. "Aint nothing left to do but sell Mary and I to a whore 'ouse."

"Polly!" Heather chastised her.

"Lord Montfort wasn't the most popular here." A black man said coming into the courtyard, wiping his hands clean on a rag that he stuffed back into the leather apron at his waist.

"Lord Montfort died," Derek told them, "I'm Ruthven." He introduced himself to the black man, holding out his hand to shake.

"Boyd." Derek made note of the name and the fact the man didn't take his hand. "Who got the house? if'n you don't mind me asking."

"Frederick Hale," Derek told him, "Earl of Osterbrook, I'm told the cousin is in Newgate for attacking a member of the nobility, an omega, thought he could have his way with her simply because she was there."

"Hale need money too?" Polly drawled, clearly unimpressed.

"Polly!" Heather tried again to stop her but the child clearly had opinions of the gentry. Derek didn't blame her.

"No," Derek told her, "he's said to be as rich as Croesus."

"Well, if Creesus," she mispronounced the name, clearly having no idea who it was, "was anything like Montfort you'll have been sent here to see how much he'll get for the woodwork, just about the only thing left."

"I can assure you, miss." Derek told her, being careful to use his London manners, "That Lord Hale is not short of money, I'm here to act as a steward to make this a house to be proud of, a home that could hold it's head up in London with pride."

"This aint London." Polly corrected him. "I'll go see if'n I can find Stiles. He won't like this."

"He went down to the beach." Boyd told her. "Now Heather, you'll be wanting to make Mr Ruthven a room up, and I'll take his horse."

"Horsie!" The baby on Heather's hip squealed, reaching for Boyd. "Horsie, up!" Then followed with a string of nonsense syllables.

Boyd took the baby, settling it on his hip as comfortably as Heather had done. "Well, come on then, wee man," he drawled, using the Yorkshire words with his thick American accent, Derek didn't know enough about the Americas to place it but it was slow and rich like salt water taffy. "Let's go see the horsie."

"You can put him on his back," Derek said, "if you're careful, Avril won't throw him, but be careful." Boyd looked at Derek with a strange expression. Derek didn't know why, his nephews rode Avril, with a groom there to steady them, all the time. "Now, if you don't mind, Mr Boyd, I'll help Miss Ives."

Polly had taken her sister along a small path between the mews and what he suspected was the bake-house, and Derek made a note of it, thinking that leads to the beach. He was going to have to draw a map of the house and outbuildings, or he was sure to get lost. He was beginning to suspect that the bet that he had made with Peter, Lahey and McCall would be child's play next to actually reviving the house. It would be easier to demolish it and start again. He needed to see the housekeeper, whose Deaton's notes called Talbot, and the people called Stiles, and gain access to the ledgers, but he had the very distinct impression that it would take a long time to see them.

\--

Inside Wolfe Hall was as dark as the stone work, the hallways were made of the same heavy grey blocks which made it seem all the more imposing and struck Derek as the setting of one of the gothic novels that Laura liked so much. With all of the windows tightly shuttered there was little natural light, and Heather did not light a lamp, used to the gloom.

The kitchen was large, and build around a huge inglenook fire with a lot of metal accouterments that Derek didn't recognise, hanging over it on an iron frame with a spit. There were baskets hanging from hooks on the wall, next to some old, but clean, copper pots and pans, although the baskets, and the pantry, left with the door open, were empty apart from some winter vegetables and a few jars of pickles and chutneys. There was a tin which might be tea, but Heather moved him through so fast he didn't get a chance to check it.

She took him up a flight of back stairs and through the butler's pantry, which only had a few ceramic plates and certainly not a full set. Even the tantalus, locked as it was, was empty. "This is the main floor," Heather said, "that's the front door, it goes out on the ground," which surprised Derek as they had come up a flight of stairs from the ground floor, "the house is built on an incline," she explained, "both the front and the back open on the courtyard, but you never get to see it from the outside because of the dip."

She continued on, pointing out a room as she went, "That's the big parlour, we use it because otherwise the cold gets into the house and it's terrible to get out again, and the mice get in, worse than the cats can manage. Left it one winter, just used the kitchen fireplace, and the doors to the dining room warped shut from the damp." It wasn't done for servants to use the parlours and it was clear that Heather was justifying it's use, but when she pushed open the heavy door to show it it wasn't what he expected. It was a large stone room, such as was common in the Scottish castles, with only a few high backed wooden benches clustered around the fireplace, and a blanket laid on the floor with a few wooden blocks, where it was clear that they let Oliver play. He wondered if this austerity was normal for Yorkshire.

The rest of the rooms were as empty, there were a few ugly pieces of furniture that looked to have been taken from either the Seven Stars Inn or a tenant's cottage. There was none of the cushioned furniture he was used to in London or any of his other houses. What little there was was fiercely functional and battered enough to have clearly survived years of hard use.

To Derek's surprise Heather didn't take him to the servant's quarters in the attics, but instead took him up the main stairs to one of the second floor guest rooms. A steward would normally have had the use of one of the tenant's cottages. "Polly and Mary sleep upstairs." She told him, opening the shutters to let light into the room, "it wouldn't be proper for you to sleep up there. We have to at least maintain the image of propriety, even though there's only a few of us. I don't think you'll be trying anything with Polly, but Mrs Crosier down in the village is never one to leave gossip alone, and she'll make sure the whole county knows it."

Heather, it seemed, gossiped as much as her mother, pointing out facts about the house as she went, often with somewhat snide comments about Mrs Crosier.

He also learned from her that the town had a new parson, a gentleman come from Harrogate called Jordan Parrish who was ever so handsome, but no one knew if he was looking for a wife from the local girls, but Jessamine Crosier, Mrs Crosier's apparently ugly daughter, had gone to a modiste in Whitby and had considered it an investment against winning the parsonage. Although everyone knew that she had stepped out last summer with Tommy Price, and it was a wonder that they weren't married if what Heather heard was true, but Mrs Crosier was mean about everyone but her precious Jessamine.

Derek was none the wiser about who these people were, but Heather was quite sure that if Jessamine or her fellows, of which there were three he guessed, heard there was a new steward they would be aiming their bonnets at him, and would, if Jessamine was any example, probably try to compromise him into marriage, because after all an alpha steward was worth more than a beta parson.

Derek resisted the urge to laugh, if he was close to being compromised his uncle would take care of it, and his taking care of was in many ways more than these girls could aim for in marriage. They might think that he was only a steward, but the rules were different for the nobility.

The room that Heather told him was his was as sparse as the rest of the house, with a wooden bed frame, with a thin mattress rolled up on top of it, which Heather had put linens on from a closet in the hallway, as well as a pair of blankets, with no counterpane, a fireplace, and no coal bucket. The floor was bare wood but scrubbed clean. "Do you want me to make the bed up for you, Mr Ruthven?" She asked, "and I'll go scrounge you up a bucket for wood for the fire, I'll lay a new one out for you, but you'll need to light it when it starts to get dark so the room is nice and toasty when you go to bed."

"Thank you, Miss Ives," Heather beamed at him, he guessed she wasn't used to London manners living so far from society. "Would the housekeeper mind if I take a look about the house unaccompanied? I wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes."

Heather's frown didn't suit her open, pretty face. "It might be best to wait for Stiles to come back." She admitted with her lips tight, "the west wing is derelict, the wooden floor is almost rotten through in places, and it's over the basement well. Stiles wouldn't forgive himself if you ended up down the well, and how would we explain it to his lordship, he went wandering off and fell down a well, we're waiting for his body to wash up down shore."

Peter would have found that hilarious. It was the sort of luck his family had and after a certain point tragedy just became funny.

"I wouldn't dream of exploring if it's going to get Mr Talbot in trouble. Are the grounds safe? I could start with a tour of the outbuildings if the house isn't safe." Heather didn't seem too pleased about that either. He was beginning to wonder if they weren't trying to hide something, although he wasn't sure what there was left to hide. Perhaps Lahey was right and they were skimming, there certainly wasn't enough to consider stealing and they weren't living nearly well enough to explain the silence and misdirection.

The room was large and bright, it would have made a lovely guest room, but the view was spectacular, even though the furnishings were spartan. The walls had been plastered, although the plaster was old and cracked, and the fabric wall covering both faded and in places shredded, like claws had found it. In places the peach coloured plaster was visible through it, and there were a few pocks pulled out of it like someone had attacked it with a pick. The shutters were simple panelled wood and there was a window seat, painted white, but the paint was worn thin where it had been opened and closed by years of successive pairs of hands. As bad as it was, and Peter - ever the paragon of fashion - would have had conniptions, Derek liked it.

"Miss Ives, are there any candlesticks or lanterns I might use. I often have a lot of paperwork and correspondence and have to work past sundown." He made a mental note to have the American man, Boyd, help him carry a desk in here, if one could be found. An old table would make do. He had always found it was best to answer questions before they were asked, as it saved him from long conversations.

"Stiles might have some, from where he does the ledgers." Heather told him, finishing making the bed, by plumping the down pillow in it's case. "You can ask him, I'll walk you down to the kitchens, he should be back by now." Nothing that he'd probably have to carry the makings of a fire to the room, he followed her back to the kitchens.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the people of Wolfe Hall are as welcoming as the house itself

A young man was stood over the main table in the kitchen separating something into a bucket by his feet, using the natural light from the window so he could see what he was doing in the dark room when Derek entered the kitchen. He was a tall figure, with shaggy dark brown hair, though slightly lighter than Derek's own black, with brown eyes and a spattering of moles. He was a good looking youth with expressive eyes and a positively sinful mouth, and the more Derek looked the more he found appealing. The youth had firm, strong hands, with long fingers, and a long slim neck that rose from the open collar of his stained white work shirt. He was wearing rough spun ankle length breeches, with battered boots, and a thin wool coat in the beta style, halfway between the high waists of alpha males and the knee lengths omega men wore, pulled shut with a single button. The others were missing.

"You must be the new steward," the youth told him as Derek instinctively checked his ears, so much about a personality could be revealed like that, which was why most people, this young man included, covered them for propriety's sake.

"Derek Ruthven," Derek introduced himself, "You must be Talbot, the housekeeper."

The boy, for he was certainly no older than twenty, looked like he was about to contradict him, then changed his mind. The youth, Stiles Derek made a mental note of the name, was wonderfully expressive. Derek had a moment's wonder of what he'd be like in bed, would he be so expressive then, before quashing it. Although many lords took advantage of their staff Derek was not one of them. It had always been a point of pride to him that he didn't because it was difficult to say if someone said yes because they were afraid for their livelihood or simply wanted to bed him. It was something else he had learned from Peter, servants and kept mistresses had to much consideration for money to consent freely, so they might as well have not consented. There were certainly enough pretty widows, or even married beta women willing to cuckold their husbands. Peter almost certainly knew all the ones in London by name.

"I'd shake your hand but I'm making luncheon." The youth, Talbot, Stiles, Derek corrected internally, and Derek looked at what he was doing.

"What is Heaven's name is that and are we expected to eat it?" They were some sort of shellfish, Derek could tell that, but certainly none that he had ever seen. The meat looked like long floppy white penises, knot and all, hanging out of a mud brown shell. Stiles was opening the shell, shucking the meat free, quickly gutting them and putting the waste in the bucket by his feet.

"Razor clams." Stiles told him. "I got a good haul this morning, enough for stew not soup." It was, to Derek's knowledge, barely nine of the clock.

"Was there a man selling them?" Derek asked, wondering how anyone could sell something that looked so alien and unappetising.

"All you need for clams is a knife, a bucket, and a little know how." Stiles picked up a clam and looking at it, dropped it straight in the bucket. "They make a good broth, good for you and don't cost a sous." It was odd, Derek thought, that he used the French term, "can boil them with some carrots for Oliver."

"Why not just give him an egg mashed with butter?" That was what Laura's nanny swore by for the boys, something they were guaranteed to eat more of than they smeared into their hair.

"Need eggs for that, and butter." Stiles answered without looking up. "Montfort took the cows and hens a long time since, and didn't leave enough to buy luxuries like milk or eggs. We grow our own here," Stiles felt the need to explain, "and we make our own soaps with the scraps. We make do."

Derek didn't know what to tell this defiant boy who was the housekeeper, he just watched for a moment then took out his purse, putting it on the table with a clunk. "Here," he told him, "is there someone to send for town for groceries." Derek really didn't want to eat the white penis stew Stiles was cooking.

"You don't have to do that," Stiles scraped the meat of the shellfish, chopped into small chunks, into a copper kettle full of water. "We make do." Over the clean, sea smell of the clams, Derek noticed that the boy smelled faintly of lemon, like he had been peeling them and the oils had soaked into his skin.

"I do have to," Derek told him, "for I have no intention of eating that."

"Supper is served at the _Seven Stars_ if you're hungry." Stiles told him, "we make do, we don't need your charity."

"This house and it's staff are under my care as steward." Derek was angry that this boy's pride was suggesting that he would end up eating what looked to be sea penis stew - he'd rather eat soap. "His lordship forwarded me some funds and promissory notes with instruction to send for more if I needed them. The first step will always be ensuring that the staff are fed, and fed well. Rome may not have been built in a day but it certainly wasn't done on empty stomachs."

"The cart is broken, axel snapped years ago, couldn't get it fixed." Stiles told him, "and that horse of yours don't look fit for carriage, and we can't ask Boyd to walk to town and back loaded with food, especially live hens." He fixed Derek with a glare, "I can send Heather with instructions and Will can bring it with him in the morning, we've got pheasant pie for supper, I've got lard for the pastry, and some flour left." It didn't sound much like a compromise the way Stiles said it. "But you can tell your master he won't get any more money from the estate, that he's bled it dry, although I must admit you're more pleasant to deal with than that asshole man of his, Harris, you aint patted Heather's arse once yet or made an inappropriate comment."

"Lord Montfort is dead." Derek told him bluntly. "I'm Lord Osterbrook's man."

Something complicated crossed Stiles face, including a moment of sadness, before he shut it down and it was swallowed by disgust. "Well, Lord Osterbrook won't get any more money out of the estate, we're bled dry."

"I'll need to see the ledgers regardless." Derek told him, "see if we can't restore the house." Stiles made an amused snort of a noise. "Lord Hale has no need of money."

Stiles leaned forward with both hands on the table. "It's not that I don't believe you but as you can see there isn't much hope left in this house. Montfort would have taken that too if he could have pawned it, but _if_ we're going to work together," he emphasised the if as he grated the words out, "there are some house rules. Don't go wandering off on your own. The wooden floors are rotten in places and we don't want you coming a cropper. The doctor isn't in town but for half the week, so you'll have to make do with whatever hedge medicine Boyd and I have learned. The land isn't much safer, the ground falls away sharply and the tide comes in fast. The sea has some vicious turns and rip tides amongst the stones, and I have no idea who to write to to inform his lordship of your death." Somehow it didn't feel like a threat. "You'll get there soon enough to know where's dangerous." From a basket on the wall he took a few fat carrots and an onion, which he started peeling with capable fingers, before chopping and dumping them in the pot.

"The other thing you need to do so that everyone gets along, friendly like, is unless you're after marriage you make no move on Heather, at all, or Erica, she's spoken for. You get an itch then you overnight in Whitby, and you are discreet, or I'll find out who to write to to get you dismissed. Everyone in this house is off limits to you."

"I make a point of never dallying with the staff." Derek told him, "they often say yes for fear of their jobs."

Stiles flashed him with a rather cruel smile. "I'm sure old Jasper will sleep safe in his bed knowing that."

Derek didn't laugh but he did consider it. "I have only one proviso," he said with his most wolfish grin, the one Peter told him was guaranteed to lift skirts. Peter had it too but used it far more often. "You take your meals with me so we can discuss the estate." Stiles didn't look pleased but he did agree.

\--

Derek liked Boyd. Boyd wasn't given to frivolous conversation, in fact he barely talked, and so they could share a comfortable silence as they walked Derek around the lands, with a few words here and there about the purpose of the buildings and what was meant to be there, although judging by their state they hadn't been used for purpose for over the last ten years. Boyd did offer him one of the mews, the small houses on the estate, which would have been more suitable for his position, but both of the two that were vacant were full of broken pieces of furniture and farm equipment.

"I am going to have to go to Whitby." Derek told him, Boyd didn't answer "Set up some lines of credit for things we need, like reliable groceries and a cart, some livestock."

"If you put in an order in town Mr Ives will bring it up with his sister in the morning. You'll need cash in hand," he continued past a small orchard that, this late in October, had been stripped of fruit. Derek had a moment's thought of the lack of jars and pickles in the pantry and wondered where the fruit went.

"I have to ask about the missing ward." Derek said, noticing a ruin on the landward horizon that might have been a folly.

"I've only been here three years," Boyd told him, "and in that time I've never seen anyone treated like a ward. Stiles took in the Kyds just a year, or so, ago, when their mom died. He's was good to offer me a place here, the work is hard but he don't let me go hungry." Boyd didn't look like he was afraid of hard work. He had no intention of giving his life story and Derek had no intention of pressing him on it. The man's past was his own.

"What do you do here at the estate?" The wash house, Derek noticed, was immaculate but Mrs Ives had said that Erica sometimes took laundry in from the town.

"A bit of this, a bit of that," Boyd answered, "gardens mostly, there's a kitchen garden and a herb garden, there's the orchard, and then anything else I'm needed for."

"Including hunting?" Derek asked, thinking of the pheasant pie that Stiles had said was for supper.

Boyd answered him with a shrug, "if it's needed." There was a little bit of defiance in it. People hanged for poaching.

"I'll list your job title as gamekeeper then." A gamekeeper was a hunter who worked for the estate, providing meat and making sure the deer and rabbits didn't over run the estate, as they could eat a crop bare given the chance. "And how big are the kennels?"

"Two dogs, bitches both, mongrels the pair of them." Boyd said, "Erica, I mean Miss Reyes, takes them down to her cottage because she has rats and the cats are useless with the rats around here, big as the cats they are. There's four cats, Lucifer, Esmeralda, Socks and Crow." Derek had a moment's thought that someone had put the animals down in the ledger as drawing a wage.

"Any livestock?" He asked Boyd.

"There's an ass at the brewhouse," Boyd said, "but he belongs to Jasper, not his lordship."

"He couldn't bleed the brewhouse," Derek agreed, "if he couldn't make ale for sale." He stopped and looked at Boyd. "What do you need to bring the place up to scratch, we're not short of blunt in fixing it. Anything you want?"

The look Boyd gave him had a certain cautious disbelief. "Harris said that too, Got all the things I got at discount and sold them for profit down south, you'll not mind if I don't fall for it again." Derek frowned, whoever this Harris was he had fleeced the estate as bad as Montfort.

"I'll need to see a solicitor, set up a line of credit for the estate, but buy what you need, list it to the entailment so it belongs to the estate not Lord Osterbrook, and if this Harris shows up, make sure to drive him off, use force if you need to." The smile Boyd gave him that time was genuine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The baby waking Derek leads to a conversation in the kitchen, and two very different definitions of tea.

Derek was awoken in the night from a well deserved sleep by the baby crying. At some point one of the house's cats, a large grey and black beast with shredded ears and a one baleful greengage eye had crawled onto his pillow and draped itself over his head in the gap between the crown of his head and the headboard like a warm, purring hat.

He stumbled out of bed, pulled on his sleeping breeches, which he had skinned out of in his sleep and rammed his feet into a pair of makeshift slippers, before pulling his shirt over his head. There was a rug under his bed which he had been almost sure wasn't there when he had moved into the room, but had been when he went to bed, but it decided he must have been mistaken, and he'd just missed it. After all it was been very late, with no sign of daylight being near, and there was a baby wailing. It was clearly why Polly and Mary had been put to sleep in the attic far from the noise.

He stumbled down the main steps, heavy stone ones, with one hand on the wall so he didn't fall, in just some light cotton lawn breeches - the house was cold despite the fires Heather had laid here and there for him, and an old shirt, glad that his luggage was due the next day. He was going to ask Dunbar, one of his servants who often stood in as his valet, to stay - not to fix his cravat because he doubted anyone would care if he didn't wear one this far from respectable society, but to help around the house, especially with the trips to town which were necessary.

The kitchen was lit by a fire in the grate, and a few bad smelling smoky tallow candles, as Stiles, Talbot - Derek corrected himself, walked back and forth with the baby, Oliver, in his arms. In his adult life Derek had seen many images of an omega holding a baby, it was an artistic staple including the holy mother and infant, it was the perfect marriage of omega docility and alpha virility. Derek wanted to tell those artists that they were all wrong, that the image they showed of the willowy omega whose nudity was barely visible through their shift and the laughing baby was clearly a dream of someone who had both no idea of how omegas slept - after all everyone knew they were ran cold - or how a baby who had woken in the night looked, eyes screwed shut, fists gathered in his hair and cheeks red and shiny with tears and mucus as he squalled.

Stiles was wearing a thick linen shift that wouldn't have been sheer soaking wet, tied at his neck, with a pair of thick knit socks, and Derek, in that instant, envied him those socks, not being awake enough to question the long Kashmiri shawl draped around his shoulder, the heavy golden locket around his neck, or the way his hair was caught in a mess of cowlicks around his head.

Derek's brain made two simple realisations, one that Oliver was loud, and the other was that he really needed a pair of those socks.

"Did he wake you?" Stiles asked. "He's teething, he can't help it." Derek only knew about teething from Laura's boys, who had gnawed on anything that they could find and reach. "There's tea in the pot on the fire."

Tea was expensive and Derek suspected it was what had been in the mysterious tin in the pantry, but he was still too sleep fuddled to care right now, before he pulled two of the cups, rough heavy ceramic things - chipped from years of use, and filled them to the brim. It was only when he took a sip of it, sweet and perfumed and tart and bitter all at the same time that he realised his definition and Stiles definition of tea were two very different things. He almost spat it back out and Stiles, shushing the baby in his arms, smiled at him. "It's rosehip and lavender, put hairs on your chest."

"I have hairs on my chest without the help of that," Derek answered as Oliver stopped wailing and started whimpering.

"I know, baby," Stiles told him, laying a soft kiss on the child's head, "I know it hurts."

Derek tried remembering what it was that Laura did. "Ship's biscuits!" he said, "it's what my sister used, let them gnaw on it not the furniture. don't know if it stopped them crying though."

"I gave him a drop of gin." Stiles said. "He's tired, poor mite, he'll cry himself to sleep soon enough. I'm sorry that he woke you."

Derek must have been half asleep because he had been entertaining a momentary and rather pleasant fantasy of the handsome young beta mothering Derek's children with the same care and devotion. He brushed the thought away, beta men couldn't have babies after all, and in what had felt like the split second his alpha instincts had taken over Oliver had whimpered himself to sleep. "I'll put him back to bed, I am sorry he woke you."

"Might have been the cat," Derek shrugged it off, "big one, decided my head was interloping on it's pillow." He said, pulling out one of the kitchen stools and debating another swallow of the tea. It tasted bad enough that he expected it would wake him up and get rid of those silly alpha family delusions.

Derek was an earl, he would marry a suitable society omega who wouldn't' raise their own children, but pass them off to a beta nurse or governess. It was only that Laura's husband, Roland, was unusual that Laura even saw her boys to dote on them except for at meal times. Roland had lost his family _La Terreur_ , the revolution which had swept his native France, as a young boy, raised by parents on his family's behalf and he had ideas which were scandalous to most of society about child rearing, like he should raise his own babies. He also loved being pregnant, and most unfashionable of all, loved his wife dearly. Watching Stiles, a beta Derek reminded himself - because an Omega would be neither out in his current state of undress or this far from society being simply too valuable - Derek wanted that. As coin hungry as Lord Montfort was he would have auctioned off an omega to the highest bidder as soon as they came of age, if only for part of the dowry. So the ward, if it was an omega, was not old enough to be presented for marriage. He remembered what Polly had said about Montfort selling her to a brothel, and something cold settled in his chest and clung to the back of his throat like a bad taste. How much would a brothel pay for an omega child?

He took a mouthful of the tea, which managed all at once to be repulsive, welcome and completely coat his mouth, although not necessarily pleasantly, to wash the taste away.

"You get used to it." Stiles told him, his hand on the back of Oliver's head, the child suckling a wet spot onto the fabric of Stiles' sleep shirt, and Derek fancied he could spy a delicate ankle under the hem of it, but the light was poor and he might have been mistaken.

Although Derek knew that Stiles meant the tea, Derek answered him, "and that's what I'm afraid of."

\---

With Oliver set down to sleep on Stiles' bed, in a room adjoining the kitchen that Derek had not previously noticed, Stiles began the making of breakfast. "It's too late to go back to bed." He said, checking a clock on the mantle that Derek hadn't seen on his walk through the house. It was a battered carriage clock in a leather travelling case that read ten to five. It was only a few hours until dawn. "Are you hungry?" he asked, "I can make us something to eat." He had tugged the shawl, a beautiful soft wool with gold and scarlet paisley leaf and seed designs around a length of cream fabric, tighter about his shoulders against the cold and had tugged on a pair of trousers up under his shift.

"I could eat, get the taste of this tea out of my mouth." Derek told him.

Stiles took a small copper cauldron from the wall and half filled it with water from the kitchen pump with a few jerks of the handle, and then from a small sack of oats added a few handfuls, before hanging the cauldron over the fire on the trivet. "It won't take long," he said, "it'd be better with milk and honey, but we've no cow and the beehives are kind of terrifying."

"How did everything get so bad?" Derek asked.

"Ste, Montfort," Stiles caught himself over the slip quickly, "liked to gamble but he wasn't very good at it, and he was lord who wanted to live like a king."

"So he sold things off to pay for his vowels?" Derek asked.

"Vowels?" Stiles asked, not recognising the term, washing down his questions with tea.

"His I.O.U.s" Derek qualified.

"He took everything that wasn't nailed down and a few things that were, and every year the rents went up and the number of staff went down to pay for his boots and cravat pins and tailor."

Derek wasn't as surprised as he should have been. "Surely he realised that a functional estate would make more money."

"We figured he didn't care when he tried to reopen the mine." Noticing Derek was not going to drink his tea Stiles took it for himself, pouring it into his own cup, which he had already emptied.

"The mine?" Derek pressed, letting him have the tea and adding both proper tea and coffee to his mental shopping list, and chocolate, the girls would like chocolate, as soon as he found someone to bring them milk.

"An alum mine," Stiles told him, "Old Lord Montfort closed it down years before, said it was tapped out when everyone knew it was just dangerous. Men died and it was tapped out as soon as his lordship heard. He was a good man, was Robert Montfort." The way Stiles spoke of him it was clear that there was genuine affection there, but if Stiles mother was the old housekeeper as Derek believed, then he would have been born and grown up in the house. It was what might have caused his fierce loyalty to the house. "Of course the old man wasn't even cold in his grave when Ste, I mean Lord Montfort, tried to reopen it, right up until he was told the cost. There's no profit to be had in an unsafe mine, and two more people, prospectors and Irish both, had to die for him to see that. So there is no mine, not anymore, you can tell your master that. The grass has grown over it and no one here will tell him where it is. The mine's been left to the water these ten years past, and let the devil have it."

"I told you," Derek said as Stiles got up to stir the porridge which was now boiling on the fire, "Lord Osterbrook has no need of money, he'd be happy with the estate looking after itself. It must have been beautiful in it's day."

Stiles loved the house, as mistrustful as he was it was clear that he loved the house dearly. Yet instead of flattering him, as Derek intended, Stiles closed himself up like a fan before snarling. "You have no idea. At first he started with a few pieces of furniture to remind him of home whilst he was in Bath to find a Lady or Vidame Montfort. Then more and more, and the rents went up, so high in places that the tenants couldn't afford them, higher even than London prices, and when the tenants couldn't pay he had them evicted even though they had worked for his family for generations. He just had his man, Harris, move them out, taking what they owned to pay the back rent. It didn't matter that they were loyal to the Montforts, he threw them out like nightsoil, and no one to take their place. But I shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

"Well, that's easily solved," Derek said carefully. "If you have the ledgers from Lord Montfort's father and as steward we can restore the rents to what they were."

"You can do that?" Stiles asked. "Lord Osterbrook won't mind? I'll not have someone else fired because I was carrying tales."

"I can assure you," Derek told him, "his lordship won't mind, he told me to act if i was the earl himself to make these decisions on his behalf."

Stiles immediately turned cold again, "I'll tell you what I told Harris. I'll not just tumble into bed with you because you make promises to the house."

Derek actually flinched from the tone, and made a pledge if he ever met this Harris he would punch him right on the nose. "I told you, I don't dally with the staff." He said, "and as housekeeper that includes you." Stiles didn't look reassured, and it didn't matter how lovely the boys eyes were, or how they looked like warmed brandy butter in this light, or his positively sinful mouth. Derek had never dallied with the staff and had no intention of starting now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> errata  
> I made a few changes, nothing scary
> 
> Stiles shawl although in period would not have been known as a Paisley pattern for another twenty or so years, it was bugging me so it's a Kashmiri shawl now. It should be noted that these are super expensive, the Paisley equivalents were knock offs made of fine silk and wool blends instead of cashmere, but at this point although it could be a shawl from Paisley it would be called Kashmiri.
> 
> I reduced the ward's dowry from 50 to 15 because 50 is an obscene amount of money. To give you some perspective Georgiana Darcy had a dowry of Thirty thousand pounds, now to give you an idea in modern money, 100 pounds was enough to comfortably live on for a year and was about 75 thousand pounds modern money, now certain things were much more expensive, clothes for example, a dress could be upwards of a pound (£750) because of fabric, etc, so yeah, a bet for 1000 is a lot! but 50,000 is stupid money (still is) 15k is still a large dowry  
> this is because I was reading a lot of regency romances and they didn't do their research - I did  
> a servant's healthy wage would be about £10 a year, to give you an idea just how much 50k is. So I changed it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam decides that although the house is a dump the food is good, and Derek thinks he knows who the ward is

Liam Dunbar was Derek's valet despite his youth, he was freshly turned seventeen, and had served for nearly three years now. There were several reasons for this that did not include the persistent rumour that he was Peter Hale's bastard. The likeness between them was remarkable but both Peter and Mrs Dunbar had maintained their innocence. Liam had grown up in the main Hale house and had only barely escaped the fire with his life and not unscarred. As soon as he was well Peter had sent him to serve as Derek's valet, even though he had needed to stand on a step-stool to tie Derek's cravat at the time, and Derek had maintained he didn't need one. What this meant primarily was that Derek had a member of staff that was loyal only to him that could be trusted for sensitive tasks, and fastening his cravat.

So it was Liam who brought Derek's luggage, a portable writing desk full of papers, a trunk of clothes and a leather box full of ledgers to the house in Yorkshire. Being Liam his first words to Derek, on getting down from the wagonette, were "what a dump!"

Derek watched how Stiles stiffened, before going back to the kitchen, his shawl pulled over his shoulders as it started to get colder with November fast approaching. "I've got your letters, your lordship." Liam told him, reaching into his greatcoat to fetch them. "I figured it would be quicker than trusting the post."

"Don't call me, your Lordship here," Derek hissed, "it's Mr Ruthven." Liam made a face and nodded like he understood but didn't approve. Derek didn't know if Liam knew about the bet or he simply thought Derek was cultivating a mistress, although it was maintained to the contrary sometimes Derek was sure that Liam was Peter's son, the were were remarkably alike, even beyond looks. Peter was fond of the boy, strange for him, and his late mother. "Now give me a hand carrying this inside."

That Derek was prepared to help carry the luggage himself shocked Liam, because there were people there that might see and Derek was usually good about appearances. "Are there no staff?" He asked taking the left end of the trunk, one of the best available with drawers that locked individually, from the wagonette, so that Derek could balance it on the edge, allowing them both to lift it down safely.

"No," Derek said, "but don't worry, it's not far."

If Liam was surprised at the state of the house he was horrified by Derek's accomodations, putting the trunk under the window. "My lord," he hissed in the privacy of Derek's room, watched over by the black and grey cat which had taken Derek's bed for it's own. "Call off this charade, this is unacceptable for a peer of your rank."

"I told you, Liam, here I'm Derek Ruthven until I get to the truth of this place, and find the child. I'm more convinced than ever that there is one, and a lot more going on than we first assumed."

"By your command, my, Ruthven." Liam's smile was entirely too much like Peter's for Derek's comfort.

"Here." Derek said, taking a pile of letters from the night table he had carried into his room to serve as a desk. "I've got a lot of things that I need you to do, taking these back to the post being the least of it. I need you to go to Whitby first and arrange a solicitor to manage the house. I'll furnish you with some notes, but I'll need you to take the wagonette and purchase some things from me from the larger town. However if you get there and find the only solicitor is a man called Harris, go somewhere else."

"Yes, my, Mr Ruthven." Liam was used to saying the title, no matter how many times Derek told him not to bother.

"I'm going to give you a list of things to purchase on my behalf so make sure to draw some money, but I have a pound note that will cover most of it, bring everything back yourself. You might find yourself going to Harrogate or York to make enquiries with an employment agency. Again, I'll give you a list of what's needed."

"Are you sure, M, Mr Ruthven, that it wouldn't be best to fetch Seward from Osterbrook. He's certainly best equipped for this kind of work." Mr Seward was the steward for the earldom, and was highly prized, barely a month went by without someone trying to steal him for their own estate. He was exceptional at managing an estate and had turned Osterbrook around, and rebuilt the old Hale house.

"I was going to ask you to send Finstock." Derek told him, "he's better at building work over the long term and I can rely on his discretion." Liam nodded, making a mental note although he knew that Derek would write everything down for him. "But I'll need you to finish your work in Yorkshire first. If you come down to the kitchens we'll get you something to eat, but I need you to leave for Whitby as soon as. Take lodgings there tonight, I'll leave the decisions about coming straight here or on to Harrogate to you."

"Saving this house yourself is an exercise in futility." Liam clearly bit off the usual courtesy and title. He had always been frank with Derek, which was one of the reasons they got on so well.

"I'm seeing that, which is why I want Finstock here, but there is a missing child, and I can't trust him for that kind of delicacy, he's just too abrasive, and the people here are justifiably untrusting."

"I'll not question you, it's not my place, but I think I'll do you better here than in London." Liam was still looking around at the room, disappointed.

"Right now," Derek told him, "we need the wagonette and mare more than another mouth to feed. I'll need you to run me into Staithes after lunch. Try not to take offense at anything the housekeeper says."

"Like Finstock?" Liam asked.

"Exactly like Finstock."

==

When they entered the kitchen, Liam trailing behind by habit, Boyd had carried in the last of the luggage, stacking it in the butler's pantry, and he and Heather were sat at the big table, Polly and Mary between them, as Stiles served up lunch. Oliver was sat on Heather's knee, slamming his spoon on the table. It appeared to be some slices of cold meat, mutton perhaps, and an orange sludge that Derek hoped was lentils. He also hoped that like the razor clam stew it tasted better than it looked.

"This looks great," Liam said sliding unto the bench at the plate that had clearly been put out for him, and reaching for the bread that was in small rolls in the basket. Derek had watched Stiles bake them just this morning. Liam was still at the age where he ate everything, regardless of taste.

Stiles beamed at him, taking down one of the pewter tankards and filling it full of a frothy dark ale and sliding it across the table to him. Boyd was drinking the ale too, but everyone else had water - Derek included. "Will you be staying here tonight?" Stiles asked, his voice almost syrupy sweet, which made Derek wonder if he would have smothered Liam in his sleep.

"No, I've got to be getting on to Whitby for his lordship," Liam said, taking a large swallow of the ale. "Oh this is so good," he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "I don't think I've ever had such good ale, you're blessed surely, because this is amazing." He tore into the dark rye loaf, "I know they say hunger is the best sauce but I have to compliment the cook." He managed between mouthfuls as Polly heaped more of the lentils on his plate from a bowl in the centre of the table.

"Can we trade you for him?" Polly asked and Stiles laughed, indulging her. "And then when I'm a little older we can get married." 

Liam nearly choked.

Heather laughed at her antics before saying, "which is the one you want to marry, hen, Mr Ruthven or his young friend."

"Why would I want Mr Ruthven," Polly asked, aghast at the very idea, "he's ancient."

"I'm only six and twenty." Derek protested, wondering if it was his neatly trimmed beard that made him look so much holder, people always assumed he was five and thirty.

"Then you can marry, Stiles." Mary piped up. She was apparently shy and this was the first time that Derek had heard her speak.

Stiles, who had taken Oliver unto his own knee, and the boy was squirming on his lap trying to avoid the spoon that Stiles was determined to force into his mouth, made a surprised noise that was a little disgusted. "You know that's not why people get married, Mary-hen." He told her.

"But Miss Erica is promised to Mr Boyd and she said I could help, that I could have a new dress and a crown of flowers."

"Sound's like you'll be as pretty as a bride yourself." Liam told her, trying to defuse the awkward turn the conversation had taken.

"Will you marry me then?" She asked, completely uncaring that she was only six.

"Mary, you're too young to get married," Polly said, "I have to get married first."

"You have to wait until you're as old as Miss Erica," Boyd's voice was a soft rumble. 

"But," Polly protested. "I'm almost fourteen, my Ma was fourteen when she married my da."

Derek knew intellectually that some girls married as soon as they got their courses, especially country girls, but the idea of his younger sister getting married so young repelled him, although he knew people in society who had married even younger, and then the bride would remain with her family whilst the groom crossed Europe in a grand tour, only returning when the girl was of an age better accepted by society.

A girl could marry as soon as she got her courses, Derek knew, that didn't mean she should be.

"You should wait for marriage," Stiles said softly, "till you find someone that loves you and will take care of you." It was a salve, "and until then, I'll look after you."

"I don't want to be as old as Jessamine looking for a husband, she's almost an old maid. She's two and twenty."

"My sister was two and twenty when she married," Derek told her, "and the man she married makes her very happy indeed. Talbot is right, Miss Kyd," he was using his London manners to try and appease her, "Miss Ives is yet to marry and she's older than fifteen."

"But Heather's promised," Polly protested, "and so is Miss Erica, and Stiles aint never going to get married, I wanna get married."

"You will," Boyd said, "but there's years yet before you're an old maid, you're barely thirteen, just because you're not married doesnt' make you like Jessamine. She's not married because Old nick himself hasn't crawled out of the dark to promise her, with the dukes of Hell behind him for her friends."

"She says," Stiles drawled, "that she's going to catch her the new parson." Heather snorted a laugh at that.

"What did he do to deserve that?" Mary asked, turning the conversation back to more comfortable topics.

\---

Liam left Wolfe Hall just after lunch, with a list of things that Derek needed him to do for the house. Boyd had advised Derek not to go with him to Staithes as there was a storm coming in and he might otherwise be trapped in town, even though it was only a short walk back, barely a mile. 

Stiles didn't apologise for Polly's behaviour, nor did he really need to, although Derek wondered now if his instruction to bring the girl a doll from a toymaker in Whitby was now a few years too late, but one thing he had learned from the whole affair, Polly was certainly old enough to be the missing Montfort ward, and it might be that everyone denied there being a child because she was now, for all intents and purposes, a young woman, and he could understand the secrecy if Harris had tried, as Polly had suggested, selling her to a brothel, which would give the man who purchased her the right to her dowry of fifteen thousand pounds.

Derek decided that Harris needed more than a punch, but included in the papers he sent with Liam, were instructions to go to the Permberton agency in London to investigate the man on the suspicion of embezzlement. 

Derek didn't like trusting other people to do what needed to be done if it was something he could do himself, he always felt more secure if he was at some task or another, or even one he could manage with a more hands on approach, but the Pemberton agency existed for problems that a lord could not sully his hands with, and if, when Harris was arrested, a bribe came the way of the constable that Harris got a sound beating then Derek would not feel bad for it.

Instead he sent word with Heather with two basic edicts, one that the estates rents had been halved, effective immediately, and as a gesture of good will Lord Osterbrook had waived this month's rent entire. Any monies owed to Lord Montfort were now struck from the books, but he'd let them discover that for themselves.

From the books Derek knew he could have given them a year with out charging them because of what they had already paid, but that would have caused more issues than it solved.

He found he wanted Stiles smile when he found out, which surprised him greatly. He had no idea why he was drawn to the young beta, it wasn't like he hadn't experimented when at Oxford in regards to lying with male betas, but it was never his preference. So he had no idea why he had the desire to make Stiles smile, or why he felt the odd urge to please him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek begins to read Peter's correspondence.

The majority of the correspondence that Derek received was updates from his stewards who were reassuring him that all was well, and solicitors who confirmed the sentiment. There was a letter from Peter, that he left till last, and one that was not for him but was addressed to a name he couldn't' quite read, smeared it as had been with rain, but could read Wolfe Hall, so he guessed it was for Stiles. He left it on the table for him when he went to his room with a cup of peppermint tea.

Peter's letter was slightly worrying.

_"Dearest nephew, how does Yorkshire treat you? You must not let the cold affect you for I understand that it is much harsher than it is in London._

_"McCall appears to be smitten again. It seems that no sooner does his mother leave London than he gives his heart to another unsuitable woman. I am well sure that she would disapprove but I am unable at present to discern the young lady's identity. To make matter worse, if such can be said, his father, learning of the affair, has threatened to cut him off, and to appeal to the House of Lords that he be disinherited. I believe this of him. McCall assures me that love will find a way, so Lahey implored me to write to you that you might talk some sense into him. I think now that was why he was so quick to give credence to Lahey's suggestion."_

Young Lord McCall was quick to fall in love and never with girls, and it was always girls, that were suitable: alpha girls; his family's servant girls; prostitutes. If the girl was unsuitable then McCall offered her his heart. Of course it would fall to Derek to fix this latest faux pas. The girl would receive a payment and be asked to leave - at least McCall thought too much of love to simply compromise the girls, or even set them up as a mistress which would have been much less unacceptable - he wanted to marry them, and one of them had certainly tried to force him to the parson, but she had also tried the same with six other members of high society - but unlike McCall they were quick to admit they had not loved her. McCall had moped for weeks after she left London.

Shaking his head at McCall's usual folly Derek continued to read the letter.

_"Laura is well, and Cora has sent no new letters from the continent. The boys are shooting up like weeds, Theodore's loose tooth has finally come he was most keen that you be told. He may write to you himself to explain this. I assured him I would tell you._

_"I visited Lady Crowley's rout and your absence from the ton was noticed, which surprised me for even in the city you have done your best to avoid the marriage mart. However, her omega daughter, Amelia, will come out this season. I think she aims to make a match, so although I did say that I would recommend her to you I did not promise not to warn you of her intentions. If Amelia is anything like the Crowley Alphas she will be handsome but have nothing but moths between her pretty ears. Her dower of ten thousand pounds is certainly not worth spending a lifetime with a cretin._

_Perhaps when she comes out I will introduce her to McCall, for not even his father could object to such a match, as she can not ruin him I doubt he will show much interest in her."_

Peter carried on in the same vein for another page, which considering that Peter's correspondence most often resembled a novel of gothic proportions, this was quite short. There must have been a reason for Peter to write about McCall, because he certainly didn't the young alpha's money or influence. He had no designs on the McCall's ancestral pile, a half ruined castle in Northern Scotland, and on the rare occasion Peter left London, he rarely went further than Brighton, being well acquainted with the Prince Regent.

Peter had never cared for McCall's affairs before so Derek had no idea why he cared now, unless Lahey, who Peter was strangely fond of, had complained.

Peter had his machinations and rarely included Derek - which suited them both. So unless he was maintaining a relationship with McCall, in which case he would simply ruin the girl in question, and McCall preferred womanly curves to the long lean lines of a man. Society didn't care if an alpha married a male or female omega as either could produce a child, it frowned upon but would accept a beta female, who could also produce an alpha heir, a beta would not inherit. Affairs between alphas were only accepted for second marriages or as a fling before marriage, the sort of tryst one sampled on the continent but didn't bring home.

Peter was vindictive, if he wanted to destroy the girl he wouldn't need Derek's help to do it.

There had been mention that the youngest of the Martin Omegas was to be presented at court, although she was only seventeen and two of her four older sisters, Mary and Kitty, remained unmarried. Maybe Peter had finally agreed with Laura that it was time that the Earl took a wife. Derek had met both Kitty and Mary Martin and considered neither of them suitable, for after all a countess would have many responsibilities, and Kitty, although pretty enough, was vacuous and obsessed with fashion and gossip, as well as doing better in marriage than her two older sisters who were both married well, and Mary was a parson's wife if ever one was born, and Derek was convinced that the beauty had gone to the oldest sister, and the wit to the second, but Lady Martin should be proud that she birthed and raised five omega girls, even if she never gave her husband an alpha heir.

For a moment Derek considered being in London for the season in January, then remembered the crush and press of young omegas seeking a good marriage and their even more determined mamas, and decided to stay in Yorkshire.

He looked up through the window of his room at the rain. Boyd had been correct about the storm although the sky had been clear when he had said it. Stiles stood on the cliff edge staring out to sea.

Derek quickly travelled through the house, to the kitchen and took his great coat from the hook by the door. He didn't care if he got a soaking, though the rain was like needles and daggers against his skin through his shirt. It was almost dark.

He went to Stiles and draped the coat over his shoulders, "come in when you're ready." He told him.

Stiles turned, and in the half light Stiles looked stark and thin with dark circles under his eyes. "Aren't you going to ask me why?" he asked.

"I'm more worried about you catching a chill and leaving me alone with Oliver. I wouldn't know where to begin to look after him. I'd feed him ships biscuits and leave him in a soiled napkin." It was a simple truth and Stiles forced out a smile for him. "He'll be hungry." Stiles admitted, "I should go in."

"Boyd fed them," Derek said, "and Heather took them to town for the night, she doesn't like them being here in a storm, she said. Come in when you're ready. THere's a fire lit in the parlour." Heather always set a fire in the parlour, but Derek had caught a glimpse of the letter in the fire when he had passed. A fire Derek could offer but he thought brandy would be better.

"Thank you," Stiles told him, leaning in to the oil cloth coat, warm as it was from the kitchen fire. Clutching it shut with white knuckles. "Take me inside, Ruthven," his voice was cracked and small. "I," he found himself lost for words and just closed his mouth again.

"As you wish." Derek told him taking his hand and leading him back along the path, the cobbles slick and black with rain, to the house.

Derek didn't take him back around the house to the kitchen, but instead around the lea of the house to the main door which he knew was unlocked. After all there was nothing worst stealing in the house even if someone did walk all this way from the town. With his arm around Stiles, who felt so thin and small, he walked him down the hall and straight to the parlour and it's fire, and the high backed bench arranged in front of it. He took the coat from him, throwing it to the floor, and crouching in front of him started rubbing warmth into his hands. Stiles had left his shawl upon the other bench, Derek noticed, as Stiles peeled his wet shirt up over his head, his gold locket falling back against his breastbone, and his skin clammy with wet and risen gooseflesh.

"I'll go fetch you a blanket." Derek told him, "Take off your boots and socks, I'll be back anon."

"Where's Oliver?" Stiles asked, he was shivering now, the cold chattering his teeth together as Derek wrapped his shawl around him. Stiles skin was bright red from the cold, and Derek hated himself for noting how good he smelt, sweet with lemons and wet with rain, his hair slicked down about his ears. He considering stealing a kiss, to warm him up of course.

"Heather took them into town, she said her mother would be delighted to spoil them for an evening. Let me get you a blanket." Derek knew he had told Stiles that, and it was likely that Heather had too.

Stiles reached out and grabbed Derek's shirt. "Stay, please." He said, and Derek could see now that his lashes were as wet from tears as the rain.

"It wouldn't be proper." Derek protested. He needed to say it, to hear it in the air between them, he had to remain distant. He'd been in the house for only a few days and already he was questioning his steadfast rule about dallying with the staff.

"I don't care." Stiles told him, and Derek did what he had wanted from the moment he had seen Stiles stand on the cliff edge from his window. He wrapped his arms around him. Stiles immediately started to shake with repressed sobs. Derek, who was usually uncomfortable around explicit displays of emotion, just folded him into his embrace.

He even supposed he knew why.

Stiles had been born and raised in this house, so he had been present when Old Lord Montfort had been alive, and before Stephen Montfort left for Bath, which meant that as a young boy, the housekeeper's son, he would have idolised Montfort and even though he had come to hate him there was still that little boy who, unaware of Montfort's perfidy and true nature, loved him.

The heart was, after all, a fickle creature that existed mostly to compromise itself.

\---

Derek left Stiles cry until there was nothing left. It looked like the collected tears of a life that had been desperately unfair, all of the horrors that he had seen gone unto the paroxysms of weeping and the shoulder of a stranger.

When he was done, worn out and sleepy, the fire low in the grate with no one to tend it, Derek didn't realise why he had done, but he placed a soft kiss on Stiles' temple. "Let's get you into bed now," he murmured against the cowlicks, and the boy, worn out and acquiescent agreed.

The small bedroom adjoining the kitchen was chilled, the air stark and damp. There was no natural light because there were no windows, the room being under the front door, there was just one old bed, one of the legs replaced by an old packing crate, and a fireplace that only held the remnants of the previous night's fire.

"You're not sleeping in here." Derek told him, his arm around the boy for fear he might fall or swoon. "There was a fire lit in my room, you can sleep there, and tomorrow you're moving into one of the guest rooms."

"We can't," Stiles protested, "It's not proper."

"I'll stay in the parlour tonight," Derek told him, "and it's not like we need a chaperone."

Stiles looked like he was going to argue, but just went up the stairs to the room that Derek had taken as his own. Derek followed him only to fetch the writing desk, with it's correspondence, and more blankets from the closet, heaping a third on the bed for the boy, ignoring the cat he had draped it on.

Derek understood grief in a way that many of his peers did not. He had not lost everyone when the Hale house burned, but it was close enough. His family and staff had been nearly thirty strong, and there were five survivors, counting Liam, his uncle Peter, his sister Laura, although her four boys worked to ease the hurt, and his younger sister Cora who was in Switzerland. It had been eight years and Derek still felt hollowed out by it, and the execution of Mlle Catherine Argent, the alpha that started the fire by promising to his omega brother, hadn't helped.

Derek had been young and stupid, believing Kate, as she liked to be called, and the flattering things that she said in private, about how she needed to marry an Omega but Derek was young and easily led by his cock, and the promise of getting it wet with a beautiful, knowledgable woman, believed her.

Seeing her dangle from a rope hadn't brought them back, and it seemed Stiles understood the emptiness of that feeling too.

With the blankets still folded beside him, Derek returned to the banality of Peter's gossip.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather brings home some groceries, Stiles is not pleased.

The following day dawned clear, despite the previous night's storm, and Derek was woken, hunched over his lap desk in the semi gloom of the parlour, stiff and sore from sleeping on the bench, but he did not resent giving his warm bed to Stiles.

He stumbled down to the kitchen where Heather was dragging in a sack of flour, which she pulled into the pantry. "That storm last night," she said, deciding to ignore his state of undress, "it was a stunner, looks like it rolled in from the north, washed the autumn way. Were you and Stiles well, no new leaks?"

"It'll be up to you to find them I'm afraid, Miss Ives, Stiles was tired and worn out, I put him to sleep in my room because of the cold."

"You'll ruin his reputation," Heather chided firmly, "If Mrs Crosier finds out, even if were only that the two of you were alone in the house she'll try to ruin him worse than she has. She's never cared for him. She told everyone that Oliver was his natural born child."

"Why would she do that?" Derek asked.

"Because she's a vindictive old bottom feeder," Boyd said wrestling a milk churn through the door. "If it wasn't for Stiles she'd have appointed herself housekeeper of Wolfe Hall, and would use it to promote her daughter into society."

Heather crossed to the door, "Crosier has wanted Wolfe Hall for her own as long as any can remember. She was a maid here, and she set her bonnet to Lord Montfort, so old Lord Montfort fired her after she was found naked in his bed, on a night when the young lord was in Whitby. She married the only man that would have her and drove him into an early grave. She still maintains that Jessamine is Montfort's bastard."

Derek winced. "Wouldn't matter if she was," he said, "the estate was entailed, that meant it went to the nearest alpha heir."

"And that's why she tried to get Jessamine doxed." Stiles said from the doorway. Doxing was a medical procedure where the shape of the ears was altered to give a beta the distinctive alpha or omega points. If Jessamine had been a registered bastard omega to the Montforts then Derek would have been obliged, at best, to marry her and maintain the bloodlines. 

It was hard without the ears to tell a beta female from an omega female, certainly without an autopsy. 

So if the baby was doxed, an illegal procedure, Jessamine Crosier would most likely have been the next Countess Osterbrook - or at least presented in Harrogate society to net herself a titled husband. The prestige of marrying an omega could often offset the lack of a dower, so if a lower ranked member of the peerage, like for example McCall, married her then her children could marry at the highest rank with a dowry. If an omega then produced beta children she could be executed for falsely representing herself.

It was why doxing was illegal, but there would always be practitioners who were willing to take the risk if the price was high enough. The punishment could include up to thirty lashes of the whip, which could be death sentence in and of itself, and ten years in Newgate prison, and if done to a child, the child was kagged, or the curve of the ears cut off.

Repeat criminals or rapists were kagged so that society could immediately see that they were not to be trusted. 

If Jessamine Crosier was kagged it would make finding her a husband very difficult indeed, and most parsons would ask to see the ears before the marriage continued so even keeping them covered would not save her.

\---

Heather had brought coffee for which Derek could have kissed her, as Oliver toddled into the kitchen, unsteady on feet, went to Stiles and shouted "Baba, up, up." At some point Stiles had given up and let the child call him Baba. Derek couldn't help but notice Heather had listened and gotten him some new shoes.

"Stiles, Stiles," Mary said, barrelling in as he lifted her brother unto his hip. "Look," she thrust out her foot at him so he could see that she wore new boots too. "Look what Heather got us, look." The boots were clearly inherited from another child, but they were in good condition and new to Heather, and had been polished up to a shine - probably for sale.

"It wasn't me," Heather protested with a laugh, "Mr Ruthven bought your new shoes."

Mary turned to look at him, her blonde hair was gathered in pretty ringlets under a straw bonnet. She looked like a little doll with her face clean and a fresh apron over her dress. It was a little worn, like her new dress, but it was clean, although one stocking had fallen down around her ankle. Polly was wearing what was likely one of Heather's old dresses, that was sewn up with a quick and uneven hem, and the cuffs folded down and stitched in place to resemble those on a man's shirt, like her sister, she had her hair tucked up under a new bonnet.

"Sank oo." Oliver said, clearly prompted. It was one of his few phrases, Derek had heard it before. Even he had gotten a new coat, a heavy square of wool that had been cut into shape, perhaps it had been an old blanket, with a few buttons, none of which matched, into place. His sister would not have borne her sons wearing such a thing, but Oliver, with a knit cap pulled over his brown curls, seemed delighted, even his sisters were unimpressed by Derek's largess. He had ordered a pelisse each for the girls as well, but it was clear that they were yet unfinished because both girls were wearing shawls against the winter cold.

Stiles looked at the three children, and he gave Derek a dark look before he started to tell them how fine they looked, like ladies in london, as he bounced Oliver on his hip. Derek got the idea that he had angered him. Stiles may not have had money, but he certainly had no lack of pride.

He did wait, however, until they were alone in the kitchen before he let Derek feel the sharp edge of his tongue.

"I can understand the clothes and shoes," he said in a cold whisper, "but chocolate? What's next, Ruthven?" he asked, "perhaps an expensive school in Switzerland." He had his back to the table, facing the fire, with Derek between him and it. "I keep telling you, we make do."

"And I keep telling you that you don't have to." Derek answered, angry that this young man made everything so difficult. "His lordship is more than prepared."

"To do what? But luxuries like chocolate?" He's going to cast us all out." Stiles was clearly terrified by it, Derek remembered that Mrs Ives had said that Stiles had nowhere else to go. For a second Derek considered forgetting the bet, tell him if he was going to be fired it was not going to be for a pound of chocolate, that Derek was half convinced that they were either hiding Polly as the ward or more likely the previous staff, Stiles' mother included, had murdered the child, perhaps stuffing her body down the well in the basement so the body would never be found.

There was no evidence of theft, certainly there wasn't anything to steal here. Stiles kept his ledgers immaculate showing the money that the estate was making, far less than it should be, but more than enough for Montfort to live comfortably, producing around three thousand pounds a year, all of which went to Montfort in Bath, but the ledgers were perfect, Derek knew, perhaps a touch too perfect. 

If Stiles was this scared for his people, as few of them as there were, there was a secret and Derek suspected it had to do with the missing ward.

"Lord Osterbrook won't cast you out." Derek told him, "not for buying groceries. You've run this house on nothing more than pride, sweat and sarcasm," his eyes fell to Stiles' mouth as a pink tongue flicked out to lip the skin, and Stiles noticed him do it.

"This is my house, you manage the estate and I'll manage the house, and inside these walls you live by my rules."

"They are just staples." Derek told him.

"Flour is a staple," Stiles told him, leaning forward into Derek's space where he had crowded him against the table, he ignored how Derek was taking deep breaths of him through his nose, almost drowning in the soft honey lemon sweetness of him. He was too angry, perhaps to see it. "Not coffee."

"TRust me," Derek leaned back, forcing Stiles against the table's edge, "Coffee is a necessity." He was trying to cow him into some kind of submission, but Stiles wouldn't back down.

"There are spices here," Stiles looked at the table, and the things on it. There were a few small jars corked shut, with simple things like cloves and mace, things every kitchen should have. "and dried fruit, like we are incapable of making our own." 

Derek didn't want to admit he had fancied spiced fruit cake, as it might result in violence. "Children need fruit to grow strong. You clearly had to sell what the estate makes to buy the very basics. What are you going to do when Montfort's furniture arrives here from Bath? Are you going to burn it in the courtyard because you can make do with what's in the house?"

Stiles pushed past him. "I'm not afraid of you." It was a bluff, Stiles was terrified but not for himself, for everyone else in the house and Derek knew it. Worse, he knew Derek knew it. "Fine, maybe I am," he amended. Derek could destroy them and he knew it. "I'm going to write to his lordship and tell him this, and that I had no part of it."

"Please do," Derek told him, Stiles letters would be far more entertaining than Peter's society gossip or Laura's pride at whatever her boys had done, and in the case of the younger two - the twins - it was mostly spit up and fill their napkins. "He will support my decisions. The young man who visited carried news to him, before visiting an employment agency to hire a governess."

"So now I am incapable of raising the Kyds."

"Goddammit, Stiles," the name fell off his tongue and damn his London manners, "what can I do, I can't win. You're overworked so I hire someone to help you and you accuse you of calling you incompetent. Perhaps I've personally wronged you for having his Lordship set up a dower for the two of them and another for Miss Ives to right the wrongs that Montfort put you all through. Fifty pounds each is a trifle to his Lordship, and he has offered the same to you and Boyd if you choose to marry, although we call that a pension, not a dowry."

"You can't just fix things by throwing money at them." Stiles answered, "will you pay us off and cast us out? knowing we can't speak out for fear of you withdrawing that or accusing us of theft."

"When will you understand Lord Osterbrook is not Lord Montfort. He has little interest in this house. He has five other estates, each larger than the last and is set to inherit yet another from his uncle who is unmarried. He has more than two hundred thousand pounds a year, without his investments. The six thousand that this estate can provide at it's best is barely a drop in his coffers. He always has a nurse for the children of the estate."

Stiles clenched his fists beside him and for a moment Derek worried that Stiles would strike him before he lowered his head, his shoulders falling in defeat, before leaving the kitchen, the kitchen staples on the table behind them. Whatever else was said about his relationship with Stiles, volatile would be the word that best described them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek meets both the fearsome Mrs Crosier and Mr Parrish.

It took Derek two days after the disastrous argument with Stiles over the groceries to actually travel into Staithes as the weather was poor. Staithes was a small village, a ramshackle collection of small stone houses carved into the steep hillsides on either side of the estuary mouth that formed a natural harbour. Derek found it strange in a new way that he had not considered before, because he owned this town, apart from a few buildings here and there. He found it disturbing and humbling in a way that he could not expect.

A few of the people milling about, going about their daily business, nodded their heads to him in greeting, not the curtsey or half bow he had come to expect in London or the estates where he was known. But in this ramshackle town in the North of England he experienced a terrible freedom. He realised that to these people he was no more remarkable than as a novelty. They nodded to him as a neighbour, and because of it he could step into the Seven Stars and drink as much ale as his stomach could hold and Mrs Ives would simply roll him into one of her guest rooms and send him on his way in the morning.

At the general store a five pound note allowed a large line of credit with a promissory note to send to Lord Osterbrook's solicitor in Whitby when it was finally done as he handed the shopkeeper, Mr Dawes, a rather exhaustive list of things that the house needed to replenish it's stores. He also took the opportunity to order new fabric, for Staithes did not have a drapers, and someone would have to go to Whitby to collect it. He made enquiries about a reputable carpenter who was willing to embark upon what might have been a labour of Hercules to restore the house, and in turn received a recommendation and word that Mr Dawes would inform him of Derek's interest. He asked where building materials could be purchased, and the shopkeeper, told him that just about anything could be ordered, but it would take time.

Derek had just laughed and asked about a poultice to draw out splinters, explaining that he and Mr Boyd had spent the last two days in hard labour, clearing out the broken machinery and furniture from the stables and the two mews houses, putting it into piles of salvageable and fire wood. He ached from the unfamiliar exercise, for although he was not a soft layabed like some of his peers, he was much less used to hard labour than Boyd, and had actually followed Stiles advice for a sea water bath. He had tried to bathe in the frigid November ocean until Stiles came chasing after him telling him that he was meant to take the water into the kitchen and heat it for a bath.

Nevertheless at least someone found it amusing, and the salt water really had helped.

He asked the shopkeeper, as he was preparing to leave, if there was a teashop in town for although he was thirsty he did not care for ale so early in the day - or at all if the truth was to be told, and although the Inn did a brisk trade in gin Derek had always thought it tasted like soap and carbolic. He hadn't heard the other customer come in behind him. "If you'd only introduce us, Mr Dawes," the woman behind him said, "my daughter and I could invite the gentleman to tea." This Derek realised, with a flash of horror, was Sarah Crosier and her daughter Jessamine.

Mrs Crosier had a sort of plain heart shaped face with small piglike eyes, but an overfull mouth and the years had not been kind to her complexion, but she had been at best only slightly pretty. Her daughter lacked even that. Her skin was marked with a few pox scars and acne, and her nose was as red and flecked with black as a lady bug. Her hair was a dirty blonde caught in very tight pin curls around her square face. Miss Crosier was also dressed most inappropriately, wearing one of the empire line dresses worn by alpha women, but it was poorly constructed of wool instead of linen and the gathers, instead of being at her sides to give her a cylindrical figure was gathered under her small bosom to make her look pregnant, which was something of a feat as she was one of those girls who seemed afflicted with terrible thinness. Her wrists were so prominent hanging from the cuffs of her velvet coat that she looked unwell.

Everything about Jessamine's appearance was wrong, and it was clear that she used cosmetics to give the appearance of clear skin, which instead made her look like a tired and tawdry stage prostitute, and her curls, tight as they were, only emphasised the flaws in her face, which suggested that she drank and heavily, and whoever had applied her powder had not done her neck, meaning it was much different colour from the rest of her face. Derek supposed that with a firm hand and a good lady's maid she might be at best pretty, but right now she was almost unpresentable. She even had the gall to wear her pelisse open to showcase the awful dress. In his head Derek saw his uncle speechless, searching for words but finding them gone.

"Mrs Crosier," a third man said, "that won't be necessary, but thank you for your kindness. Mr Ruthven and I have an appointment, I'm sure he's just lost track of the time" The man who interrupted them had dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes, he was narrow-faced and slim, wearing an olive coloured superfine coat under a heavy greatcoat, he was much better dressed than most of the town.

"Oh, Mr Parrish," the woman simpered, "we did not see you there." Clearly she had not meant to be caught aiming her daughter's bonnet at another man in front of one of the purported suitors.

"No, Mrs Crosier, the fault is mine for not announcing myself. I thought to just pop in and see if Mr Dawes had some of those delightful quince candies that his wife makes. I had thought to introduce them to our new steward at tea. Now if you would excuse us both, Mrs Crosier, Mrs Doyle is expecting us both. Are you coming, Mr Ruthven?" Derek did not quite run after him, but it was a near thing.

\--

Jordan Parrish was an affable young man in the sort of fashion more commonly seen in London, apart from a sturdy pair of boots that did not suit the gentility of his outfit. There was also a pair of pointed ears barely covered by his fine sandy blonde hair. He was, according to Heather, the most eligible bachelor between Wolfe Hall and Whitby, and the only reason Derek cared about that was the immediate sense of solidarity it gave in avoiding the suit of Miss Crosier and her mother.

"I hope you don't mind how forward I was," Parrish said, leading him through the streets to the parsonage. "I was going to send notice that I intended to call about your investigation, but when I saw Mrs Crosier berate her daughter for her appearance and head to the store I realised that I had a brother in adversity and thought to kill two birds with one stone."

He opened the door to the parsonage, a rather stern looking house, and sloughed off his great coat, hanging it on a hook by the door. "Let me take your coat," he said, "I really did mean the offer for tea. I have been to Wolfe Hall, and no slight to the hospitality, but it was not tea that I was served no matter what they called it."

Derek laughed to himself as he handed Parrish his coat to hang beside his own. "Mrs Doyle," he called, with the comfortable ease of someone born to servants, "I have a guest for tea, we'll be taking it in the yellow parlour."

The parsonage was possibly the largest house in Staithes, and well appointed in a tidy manner, although the style was decades out of date. There was a fire in the grate and a pair of comfortable looking armchairs arranged in front of it, with a well polished table between them.

"Was calling on me just a way to introduce yourself?" Derek asked, "For you seem well acquainted with the tenants up at the Hall?" This was polite conversation, Derek could do it, after all Peter had tried to teach him for years.

"Only in part," Parrish told him, taking a seat with his back to the window. The room was cosy and warm, with thick curtains and rugs on the floor. "Miss Ives assured me both that you were a good man and that you had been suitably warned about Mrs Crosier." He sat back, folding pale hands on his lap as Derek took the seat opposite him. THere were a few paintings on the walls, most looking like the watercolours of a maiden aunt, and a large pier table under a gilt mirror with a few books strewn upon it. "I was more interested in your search for the missing ward of Wolfe Hall."

"How so?" Derek asked, he expected to be told to stop looking.

"I was most surprised when your solicitor paid call to ask about the ward, for I'm sure that you noticed that Staithes is a small town, and like all small towns thrives upon rumour and gossip. They still tell the tale of the last Montfort wedding and that was fifty years since. So the absence of rumour about the child is most curious. In fact the only rumour about the hall and a child that I could find was that Stiles had taken in the Kyd girls in order to cover for the birth of his son, Oliver, which I know to be untrue, and I have been harsh towards any that carry it in my presence." Derek made a noise of acknowledgement, "but then I found the most curious thing indeed."

His announcement was interrupted by the arrival of a housemaid who entered carrying a tray of tea, followed by the housekeeper who had both cake and sandwiches arranged on the tray in her hands. "If you'll be needing anything else, Mr Parrish?" She asked politely.

"No, thank you, Mrs Doyle. It looks wonderful as always, please pass my regards on to cook." His manners, Derek noticed were impeccable, certainly better than Derek's own. Derek only nodded to the housekeeper in thanks. She let herself out in a perfectly schooled gesture, the sort that Derek had not noticed in London. Stiles would have bumbled out making as much noise as possible, if he hadn't tripped over his own feet and thrown the tea around everyone.

"As I was saying," Parrish continued, "I found the most remarkable thing as I was helping the groundskeeper in the conservation of the graveyard." Derek nodded, this man didn't seem to need his help in carrying the conversation, but he did avoid the main part of the topic like it was plague ridden. Parrish leaned forward to pour the tea, offering both sugar and lemon, mentioning off hand that the lemons were from Wolfe Hall's own orangerie, a building that Derek hadn't even known existed.

"Perhaps it would be better," he started, "if I start with the rumours, once I found the gravestone I asked around in Staithes and found nothing. So I travelled to Whitby, it gave me a place to start with my predecessors records," he got out of his chair and took a small leather bound book froom the table and opened it, offering it to Derek, "You can read what he wrote himself. He was given to brevity, I'm afraid."

Derek took the book and scanned it carefully.

 _"Terrible storm last night. Shipwreck outside Whitby, men requested from town to help search. Twenty souls confirmed lost. Ship foundered_ Czarina Caterina _out of Varna."_

That ended the entry that Parrish had pointed to. The next one was as succinct.

 _"Two survivors from CC noble passengers, lord and vidama, both survived. V with child, lord in very poor health."_ The rest of the page was filled with notes from his upcoming sermon that Derek skimmed. It seemed that in a fishing town fire and brimstone was replaced with salt and surf, which struck him as being rather practical. He turned the page looking for the next mention of the couple, although according to the journal there had been fourteen survivors in total, however the parson, Mr Cox, was most interested in the noble couple.

_"JS died in the night, RM offered place to V at Wolfe. Says it is the Christian thing to do. V is papist. HP asked if papists have different funerary rites. Assumed not."_

It took a few pages more before he found another mention at all.

_"Met V today, very pretty woman, dark hair, remarkable eyes. Very polite. Not much English. RM thinks might be suitable wife for SM. SM still at Cambridge."_

There was no mention again for many pages, then _"Sarah Hucknall let go from Wolfe for giving V pennyroyal tea for pregnancy aches. Maintained V asked for it due to bad English. Recommended involving constable." Then a few lines later. "John Crosier applied for banns to be read for Sarah Hucknall. Asked if he was sure as SH is an unpleasant creature. He tells me it is necessary as she is with child which is why she made pennyroyal tea."_

Then there was another gap before she was mentioned again. _"V died in childbed. Requested child be raised papist. SM agreed to honour. Still waiting for news from family in Carpathia. Suspect will not receive word. SM raising child as own until family comes to claim."_

Derek was silent for a long moment. Here was actual evidence of the child. There was a child, he now knew.

Parrish, whilst Derek was reading the journal, had opened the parish records to a page, his finger marking out one of the entries. _"Vidama Claudia Stilinska, widow of Johan, died in childbed._ " It wasn't just evidence, Derek realised - he had a name. The child was the natural heir of Johan Stilinski of Carpathia. He had something for Deaton to hunt down.

"The child is never mentioned again," Parrish told him, "I'm thinking because he said that they were papist, but I have records of young Stiles coming to the parsonage on Sundays for lessons with Mrs Cox, who Mrs Doyle tells me, tried to take the young man in herself for fear it would be raised both motherless and heretical."

There was clearly, Derek told him, many advantage to living in a town that still extolled the virtues of a prize winning cow ten years dead, and the mothers had nothing to do but gossip. Parrish agreed as he continued the conversation most amusingly.

Derek was happy to be sociable, he had a name, if not an age or gender for the child, they were called Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, chapter notes here
> 
> A papist is a Catholic, it's an old insulting name, mostly used by protestants. England at the time was predominantly Anglican, but Eastern Europe was largely Catholic, so the child being raised Papist means with Catholic traditions. There are very few differences between Anglicanism and Catholicism, btw, but it was still highly frowned upon, as England had spent the best part of a hundred years trying to burn them out.
> 
> Pennyroyal tea was used as an abortefact, ie Miss Hucknall appeared to be trying to cause Claudia to miscarry, she claims it was to remove her own pregnancy.
> 
> the journal refers to Claudia as V because her title is Vidama, it is a title for all female omega, male omega are called Vidame - even a king or emperors omega child would have these titles.
> 
> Derek still thinks Polly is the ward.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the new governess appears in the house. Stiles is angry, but is generous with the gin.

Life at Wolfe Hall took on a certain easiness after the revelation of the ward's name, although Derek had left it to Deaton to find out more, the gossips in town clammed up and although Derek suspected that Mrs Crosier would tell him something he admitted that he didn't trust her to be honest, or was brave enough to risk it.

Liam arrived one afternoon just as it was getting dark, on a Friday, as Derek and Boyd were putting the finishing touches to their hen-house. Derek was most uncommonly proud of it. There were still no hens, but there was a hen-house, and he had helped build it. He had even mentioned it in all of his letters, although certainly his uncle would be having conniptions again at the idea of a Hale involved in manual labour. He daren't mention the blisters he had earned and how proud he was of them.

On the wagonette was a prim lady with a shawl pulled tight over her pelisse and a band box on her knee. She wore a stiff black bonnet with only a ribbon trim. Boyd was the first to see her, taking the rag from his belt to wipe his hands before he helped her down, as Liam scampered down on the other side. She was a plain, beta girl with a sour expression as she looked at the house. "This," Liam said, introducing her, "is Miss Sybil Vane. She is the governess you requested from Harrogate, the agency highly recommended her. Miss Vane, this is Mr Ruthven, the steward, and Mr Boyd, the gamekeeper."

Miss Vane made a moue of discontent, sweeping out her skirts. She did not look old enough to be a spinster, Derek thought, but women became governesses for lots of reasons, foremost among these was money. Some took the opportunity to move to a new place to find a husband, and some liked children, but either could not have their own, or simply no desire to. He remembered that Cora's nurse had been a male beta who loved babies and small children - but he had died in the fire. "Where are the children?" she asked.

Boyd looked at her like he might say something, but he was interrupted by Erica walking into the courtyard with a basket of wet laundry on her hip from the wash house. Erica was a defiant girl, with sleepy brown eyes and tight blonde curls, but could be very shy. Boyd looked at her like she had hung the moon just for him. In that moment Erica looked like a cornered mouse before she ducked back into the wash house, but the interruption was enough for Boyd to bite back whatever it was he was about to say.

"They are down on the beach with Miss Ives." Derek said in a more polite tone than he expected Boyd would have managed. "They are never unsupervised but their usual caretaker is currently making dinner." Derek had to bite off what he wanted to say which was "have you seen my hen-house?" 

"We should get you settled before you meet them." Boyd offered.

"I am not sure the house is suitable for children." She said bluntly. "Mr Dunbar tells me that a lot of it is derelict, also that the land is rather sheer in places and there is a steep fall to the beach."

It had been minutes but Derek was quite sure that he disliked her already. "The children are used to the house, and know it's dangers." He told her, "let us get you settled in." Her look was disappointed but Derek knew that Stiles was going to hate her and he'd be surprised if she lasted the week.

Boyd had a face like thunder when he lifted Miss Vane's trunk, mostly to avoid saying anything. "I shall get you my letters of recommendation." She told him, marching into the kitchen like she owned the house, and she made that noise again.

Stiles turned slowly to look at the intruder, his remarkable eyes were narrow, Derek saw, with a gaze like knife points. "You must be the new governess." It sounded like he dragged the words over broken glass to get them out. "I'm Stiles."

"Sybil Vane," she introduced himself. "I had hoped to speak to you to get an idea of the children." Stiles didn't soften. "I imagine that this house will be magnificent when it is restored, but right now I must admit my misgivings in regards to the safety of the children. Is there a cottage on the lands that would better suit?"

"You will not take them from me." Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and his entire stance became one braced for impact.

"I have no intention to, sir," she answered calmly, "my job is to make sure that they are safe and well cared for. I have only Mr Dunbar's gossip to go on, and my own brief impressions of the house." Stiles glare turned to Liam who had the good grace to go back to the wagonette under the excuse of having to put it in the shed. "And when the house is restored I am certain that the nursery will be perfect." It was strange, Derek thought, how genuine that she sounded as she said it. "But right now there are simply too mny risks for a small child. I understand that Oliver has only just started to walk, and that Mary, although steady on her feet, is at that age when a child gets into everything. Although I am quite sure that the elder girl is a godsend in helping you, accidents will happen, no matter how careful we try to be." It sounded perfectly reasonable, but did not ease Stiles' glare any. "So until many of the potential risks are eliminated by restoring the house, which Mr Dunbar assures me is in progress, one of the nearby cottages would be a better prospect. One close enough that the children could call as often as they liked, or even close enough that they might share meals with everyone. I believe walking to be fine exercise, so as long as the weather is fine I will not keep them away. My job is to raise the children, Mr Stiles, not to steal them away."

"The gamekeeper's cottage." Stiles said finally, "the mews are too small. The cottage is on the landward side, it's been empty for coming up on a year, but we can clear it out for you. It will take a few days." He did not sound happy by this.

Miss Vane's smile transformed her completely from a sour and missish girl into a beauty, it revealed a softness that Derek had not thought her capable of, and took years from her face. "Thank you, Mr Stiles."

"Just Stiles," he corrected her, "Boyd, will you take her trunk up to the attic, where the girls sleep. Oliver sleeps with me. He's teething and I already sleep poorly. We do not change for dinner, but there is plenty of time for you to freshen up before it is ready to be served."

She thanked him again, and followed Boyd out of the kitchen up to the butler's pantry, before Stiles turned that cold glare upon Derek, then the doorway that Liam had ducked out of. "She came very highly recommended." Derek told her, "she is said to be very good with children."

\---

Miss Vane turned out to be excellent with children, winning over both Oliver and Mary in less than an hour, and Polly by bedtime, by sharing a fashion magazine with pictures of new gowns and styles. So although Derek did not know how it had happened he found himself deep in a conversation about drapery in gowns, and how the new alpha styles were based both upon the ancient Greek statues, and the sparsity and cost of the cotton muslin from which they were made. Liam explained how although debutantes normally wore white or pale pastels that Polly herself would suit richer browns and copper colours, or even dark greens.

Stiles sat on the floor with Oliver and the new toys that Liam had purchased in Harrogate. One of them, a carved wooden horse that hide had been glued over had real horse hair to form a mane and tail and was his instant new favourite, but he had no interest in the dolls that had been purchased for the girls - the girls themselves were more interested in the fashion plates, which were brightly coloured and it was probably the first time that the girls had seen such things.

What was even more remarkable that around the children Miss Vane's hardness vanished from her entirely, leaving her cheerful and quite beautiful. Without her bonnet holding it tight about her face her hair was a mass of brown curls, haphazardly pinned up, and even her eyes seemed much less harsh. Even Stiles lost some of his reservations around her.

She helped win him over when he discovered that she carried in the pocket of her apron a tincture of willow bark and cloves for the treatment of bad teeth, Liam had said that she purchased it as soon as she had heard his estimate of Oliver's age expecting him to be teething. It genuinely seemed to ease the pain of it.

She had also suggested, that because Heather came by cart and left by night, that this might be a better alternative for their accommodations, if there was a house in town, so they might come and go with Heather. She repeated that it was only for the interim. Derek didn't even hesitate in suggesting the Steward's house and that she hire a maid to help. The steward's house was a large building that was between the general store and the Seven stars. It was where he was supposed to live so that the people of the town could come to him with their issues of the estate, however it just stood empty.

\---

Miss Vane went to bed early, with a sling over her shoulder to help carry Oliver on her hip. He had fallen asleep on the blanket before the fire clutching his new horse - where the excitement of the day proved too much for him. She bowed to them all politely, and went upstairs, with her hand in Mary's, as Mary still babbled on about all the things they could do tomorrow.

"I want to hate her." Stiles said, getting up from the floor and pouring himself a cup of gin from the earthenware jug that stood on one of the inglenook's shelves. "But she does seem to want what's best for them." He emptied the cup in a single swallow before he poured himself a second.

"I explained that she'd have no marriage prospects here," Liam said. Stiles offered him the jug but he demurred. "She said that she had no interests in marriage, but that she loved children. She left her last employer because the alpha tried to be inappropriate with her, she refused her, but her omega employer was understandably upset. She hated to leave the children, and her references are impeccable. She admitted on the journey here that she hopes to use her wage to start a children's home."

"She looks like she will be happiest surrounded by children, and there are certainly enough children in need of a home." Derek said, accepting a cup of the gin. Stiles immediate dislike of Miss Vane had made it that kind of day. The gin was sweet with the soft flavour of damson plums mixing perfectly with the sharp almost sour taste of juniper. "This is good gin," he said, surprised because he mostly didn't care for it. "You'll have to let me know where the distillery is so that I can present a case of it to his lordship."

Stiles raised an eyebrow and laughed into his cup but said nothing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek writes to Peter, he might have a fascination, and the chickens arrive.

The hens arrived at Wolfe Hall the same day that the children left for the steward's house, and Stiles was inconsolable, even with the promise of all the eggs he could eat. November tumbled into December bringing with it a bracing Northern wind that cut through them no matter how warmly they wrapped up. With Stiles unhappy he snipped at everyone around them, although the date of Boyd's wedding to Miss Erica came closer, and Derek had hidden his identity for nearly five weeks, which was five weeks longer than Lahey's last letter had believed possible.

The household travelled into town on Sunday for church services, although Stiles did not accompany them, arguing that the house could not be left alone. His argument was so cogent that Derek never questioned it. Even if he did question the mysteriously appearing furniture that popped up here and there around the house. It had been that when Montfort's furniture had been delivered that it had all been crammed into the second parlor until spaces could be found for it. Stiles said all of the furniture came from that, but Derek didn't believe him.

Even more surprising was Derek's discovery that he enjoyed physical labour, whether it was cleaning out the stables for Boyd's compost heap, or turning over the soil in the vegetable gardens, so that what remained of the plants was folded into the soil before it was left fallow for the rest of the winter. It should have been done weeks since but there simply wasn't the staff. It would certainly be better the following year, although Derek would have returned to London by then, which he lamented to himself.

Tuesdays brought the mail, the vast majority of which was for Derek, occasionally with letters for Heather that she sought to hide from her mother. It was an open secret that she and Mr Parrish were courting, but did not intend to announce until the new year that they did not eclipse Miss Erica's wedding.

With every collection of post was at least one letter from Peter complaining mostly about the lovelorn nature of McCall who had only been rescued from running off with his mystery paramour by taking a tumble from his horse and breaking his wrist. Although Peter thought he had planned to take the girl to Gretna, not the continent. Whether the girl had wanted to go Peter did not know.

He mentioned that Lord and Lady Martin were bickering, which he learned after he had agreed to spend a week with them in the country, and now he couldn't get out of it. Theodore had lost the other front tooth, and was lisping which was, apparently, hilarious, especially when he tried to eat an apple. His nurse, Miss Krasikeva, had to slice it for him whilst he protested that he was not a baby. The babies weren't so picky.

Derek knew that a lot of what Peter meant went unsaid in his letters. Peter prided himself on never lying, however that didn't mean that he could instantly be trusted because he manipulated the truth to such an extent he might as well have lied, because he allowed the person to assume whatever truth they liked from his honesty.

Although he did worry about McCall, mostly for people interrupting him asking for gossip, and cared for Theodore' toothlessness and it probably did amuse him, it certainly had when Derek was Theodore's age, but it sounded more like Peter was getting to the point where he wanted children of his own, and was making his intentions known to the _ton_ by being seen with the Martin girls he already knew to be unsuitable. His timing, just before the start of the London season in January, was as suspect as him finally visiting the Martins. Or he had been trying to distract McCall with a suitable girl, and was thwarted by his injury.

That Peter wanted Derek to return to London to deal with McCall was clear in every letter. Peter could not find the identity of his mystery paramour to simply pay her off. He was not one for responsibility, he liked what he considered the simple things, manipulating people so that he was the winner - whether that was with his investments, his gambling or his string of affairs.

Derek wrote back that he would busy until at least the opening of the London season.

There might also have been a paragraph or two about the henhouse, of which he was inordinately proud, and the window that he had helped fit. There might have been, in a moment of laxity, a paragraph written extolling Stiles' virtues, especially his hands, his mouth and the nape of his neck.

He didn't, however, mention how the nape of his neck haunted Derek. The way that the dark hair was close cropped but for a few wispy curls that could bring Derek to his knees. He didn't mention that the veins and tendons on the back of Stiles' hands left him hard and aching, especially to watch him make bread. They were a man's hands, overlarge on his youth's body, which was still soft and plump with boyhood, though he was eighteen years old. His hands were like the paws of a puppy before it was grown, too big for his frame as it was. And his mouth, which would drive a saint to sin, was plush and soft looking, but slightly open as if, in the womb an angel descended and tapped him on the tip of his nose for his naughtiness leaving the lips slightly parted as if waiting for a kiss.

He did his best to be professional and calm around Stiles, even if most of what they did was bicker like old cats, but sometimes all he wanted to do was press him back against the kitchen table, the way that he had when they argued over groceries, except when he pictured it now he put hands under that soft ass and lifted him up unto the tabletop whilst he kissed and sucked at that beautiful throat.

He didn't write it down, not just because it was inappropriate, although it was, but because he made a point of never dallying with the staff. No one would care, Peter would simply ask for more details, or even a sketch.

Nevertheless he kept it between himself, his hand and his chamberpot.

\---

"Are you finished?" Stiles asked him, leaning against the door frame so he was hung half into the room.

Derek swallowed, but wiped the nib of his pen clean, before capping his inkwell. "Do I need a jacket?" he asked. He had removed his before, when he sat down to work on his correspondence and ledgers. IT wasn't a question he'd go with him.

"No, we won't be going far." Stiles told him, "well, unless you get cold, I get cold something fierce, but it'll only be a few minutes, and it's a lovely day." Stiles had a tendency to babble when he was in a good mood. He was almost silent when he was upset, but crisp and clear when he was angry. Today he was flushed with excitement and as delicious as candy.

Instead of going left to the main stairs, as they normally did, Stiles went right to the attic stairs. Derek had only been in the attic once, when he helped Miss Vane move the children into the steward's house with Boyd, Liam taking Derek's horse to london and leaving the wagonette and cart horse in it's place. Mary's favourite ribbon had fallen down behind the wardrobe and it had taken two of them to calm her back down, by pulling out the wardrobe to find it. A four year old in a rage was actually terrifying. He had noticed that there was a locked door at the end of the hall but had thought it was for storage for things like visitor's trunks.

Stiles took the keys from his belt and unlocked it. "Lord Richard's father had this installed." Stiles told him as the door opened to reveal a ladder and a hatch, that Stiles opened to reveal a square of daylight. Derek couldn't help but watch the pert ass in front of him. God would give him strength, he told himself, it was only three weeks to midwinter. He could do this. It was just bad today because he had been fantasising whilst pretending to write to his uncle. But the ass was just there, and he wanted nothing more than to bite into it like it was a peach.

The slated roof was divided, Derek saw, two slopes pointed away from this flat space, which they successfully hid. There were a few pots with juniper bushes along the path, and in the centre of the space, surrounded by planks left out to secure their footing was the orangerie Parrish had spoken of, stuffed full of citrus trees.

"This is why you always smell of lemons." Derek blurted out.

"You noticed how I smell?" Stiles asked, "because you're not enough out of a gothic novel, Mr Ruthven," he emphasised the name, suggesting he knew it from some gothic novel or another. "I'm only surprised that you didn't creep into my room at night to suck my blood." He used his hand to deliberately bare the curve of his neck to Derek, dragging his fingers along it.

"You are a wilful child," Derek smiled at him, "why wouldn't I notice you, we share a house." Stiles looked a little baffled, "I'm an alpha, Mr Talbot, I have an alpha's keen sense of smell."

"Are you making love to me, Mr Ruthven?" Stiles asked, the very picture of a demure debutante as he opened the door to the orangerie. The air inside was sweet and moist. The boy was saucy, and Derek liked it. In gothic novels making love was another way of saying that they were flirting. He was asking if Derek was flirting with him.

"Do you want me to make love to you?" Derek asked leaning forward until he could feel the heat of Stiles' skin in the air.

Stiles blush was glorious to behold as he glowed red from his hair line, to his ears, down under the collar of his shirt, and Derek wanted to chase it. Stiles scrubbed his hand down over his hair in embarrassment, looking at everything but Derek.

"So," Derek said, pushing past him, his hand just lingering on Stiles shoulder for a few moments more than was proper. "This is where you grow the botanicals for your illegal gin."

Stiles opened his mouth a few times looking for words, but finding none. "Who told you?"

"I knew about the gin weeks ago," Derek told him, "your books were perfect, Stiles, a little too perfect, there were no errors scratched out, almost as if they were copied from another book." Derek clearly didn't care about it. "As soon as I realised that there was no way you could have kept the children unless you were selling something, and when I saw how much gin there was about the town it was clear that was what it was, because with the furniture that's been reappearing, but wasn't on Ives' cart, you weren't buying back the furniture, but the biggest clue," he said, "the lack of damsons, despite all those trees, but instead a gin flavoured with it."

"You're going to fire us now, aren't you?" Stiles asked. The colour draining from him like a plug had been pulled.

"No, I just want the proper books, although," he admitted, "if I ever get my hands on Harris I'll make him rue the day that he considered it, also, at least one crate of the gin for Lord Osterbrook's estates." Stiles colour still hadn't returned. "What you did you did for the house," he continued, "I can appreciate that. After all, you made do."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go to Whitby for the day

After Derek's revelation in regards to the bootleg gin manufacturing life quickly returned to what passed as normal in Wolfe all. Stiles took care of the house with Heather's help, Boyd took care of the grounds and Derek filled in between as was needed. It often meant that Derek was covered in muck and had to strip off his shirt and wash in the horse trough rather than track it into the house. The first time it had happened, Stiles, who was carrying a basket of winter vegetables from the cold store, walked into a wall. After that he just made sure he was there to watch as Derek poured a pitcher of cold water over the back of his naked neck.

Boyd thought it was hilarious, although Heather and Erica liked to watch alongside him, and Erica was prone to catcall. Erica had been shy when Derek first got there, as she got used to him she revealed a vibrant personality and the sort of vocabulary that would make a sailor blush, and when Heather urged, Derek, Boyd laughing behind them at their antics, to unbutton his breeches and give them a show, Derek watched Stiles blush and wide eyes aped the movement with a smile at them, before taking his hand to the buttons of his flies. All three of them went bright red and slammed the kitchen door behind them with a bout of loud nervous laughter.

Life was easy in Wolfe Hall in a way it couldn't be anywhere else. No one cared for proprieties, or whether lemon should be served with port or tea. Sometimes things were just funny, like the beekeeper's reaction to the cottage that should have been his. It was over run with a hive that took up most of the south wall. Derek could see him counting up the value of it and then debating if it wouldn't work better to just burn the house down and rebuild. He was so earnest that Derek just burst out laughing, and the beekeeper - Mr Staples- unsure what else to do laughed along with him.

They were never going to run out of honey again, and had a large amount of raw beeswax.

The image of Mr Staples walking along the path with honey piled up in heaps in his squeaking wheelbarrow, whilst dressed like a plague doctor, travelling to the brewhouse with it's surfeit of barrels, as he was singing, loudly, because with wax stuffed in his ears he couldn't hear quite how loud he was, some rather bawdy sea shanties as if there was no one in the house - never mind ladies. It was ridiculous enough to be charming.

\--

"I was thinking," Derek said one morning over breakfast, fresh cut bacon fried with butter and a pair of eggs, and fresh bread fried in the left over grease. It was simple country fare of the sort that his London Cook, Mrs Crain, would have had a fit of the vapours over, but it was both filling and tasty, "you need a new coat." Stiles raised an eyebrow, he had been using an old cloak on the rare occasions he went anywhere where he needed one and not just his shawl. "We could go into Whitby, stay overnight, and then go on to Harrogate."

"No," Stiles told him, "You can order one from Staithes, but I won't spend the night with you in Whitby. It wouldn't be proper without a chaperone."

Derek laughed because it was, in truth, a fine jest. "Mr Parrish suggested that he wished to go to Whitby that he might get a gift for Miss Ives when they announce their engagement." Stiles still looked doubtful, "I know you wished to spend the day in Whitby and this winter seems harsh, too harsh for just your shawl, a heavier jacket would do you good."

"The shawl was my mother's" Stiles told him, taking the plates from the table to the sink to be washed.

"And I'm suggesting getting a coat to wear outside, not selling it to a rag merchant." Derek thought that the rag merchant might trade him more than just a new coat for the shawl. It felt, the few times that Derek had handled it, often passing it to Stiles who felt the cold keenly, like genuine Kashmiri wool, not the silk and wool blends from Scotland that cost a fraction of the price of the shawls that they imitated. It was not unthinkable, although certainly remarkable, that Lord Montfort, or even Lady Montfort, would give a trusted servant, like a housekeeper, an expensive gift like a Kashmiri shawl. It was certainly a more practical gift than jewellery.

"I've set up a line of credit," Derek told him, "with a tailor in Whitby, setting up uniforms for the new maids and footmen that you'll be in charge of when the house is finished as you will represent the house so not only will you need to maintain a relationship with the man, you'll need clothes that fit."

"I can tailor my own clothes." Stiles said firmly, crossing his arms across his chest. Derek could see one of those arguments moving in, where Stiles pride meant he just wouldn't listen.

"I'm sure that you can, but you don't have the same access to fabrics and fittings that he does. You go and get measured and he sends the clothes on when they're ready. It's a very simple thing. We can pick you up a greatcoat, I'm sure he'll have something in stock that will fit you, as he makes them for both the boats and the local militia, and I thought it would be good to introduce you to Lord Osterbrook's men in Harrogate, as well as his house there. All things that you'd need to know as his housekeeper."

Derek had decided to forget the bet, he could afford to pay it out, but he was going to tell Stiles the truth, that he was lord Osterbrook, and that, no matter how he feared it, he was not going to get fired. It would be easier in Harrogate where the people deferred to both of them.

It was not that Derek wanted to tumble him into bed, not at all. Derek had a policy of not tumbling the staff, but sometimes under the snark and the flashes of embarrassment he suspected, though he admitted he might be wrong for he lacked Peter's skill with people, that Stiles seemed to desire him too. However he knew he could not just reveal his secret and set Stiles up with a house in London as a kept lover was insulting to the boy. Stiles deserved a spouse, a lifetime promise, and a bushel of children - all things he could not offer a male beta.

"I am not travelling with you if I need to stay over," Stiles said, "no matter what you've heard," he said with a dark smile, "I'm not that type of boy." Having washed the platters he stacked them on the board to dry. "However if we leave early with a pair of horses rented from Mrs Ives we can travel to Whitby and back in a day."

Derek had made the journey a few times, and knew that a comfortable trot took the best part of an hour and a half, so it was possible, but after a day in Whitby it meant facing the ride home, where renting rooms meant that they could return the next day refreshed and during the daylight. He had never seen Stiles ride and was unsure of his seat. But if there were two of them, Mr Parrish and himself, and Derek brought his flintlock, a two shot repeater, as well as his sword cane they should be well. "And if Parrish wants to chaperone we can ask Heather to pass the message along tonight."

"Or," Derek counter offered, "knowing that it's a long ride if we visit with Miss Vane we can leave from Staithes early."

"But Miss Vane is unmarried so it would be improper." Stiles told him, "And there's no reason to malign her in front of Mrs Crosier just to avoid a mile's ride."

It made sense, Derek had to admit. "Or," he said, "I could travel into town today and fetch two horses, and we can leave tomorrow after breakfast. You can ride rather than taking the wagonette in case Boyd needs it." Stiles couldn't really argue with him, "and we can meet Mr Parrish in town if he does not want to stay in the house." He knew he had Stiles then, "and then you could buy a gift for Miss Erica's wedding, something for the house she will share with Boyd, after all you have a payment of six months wage in your pocket." Derek had given them all a payment of ten pounds to make up for the missed wages, although it was a whole years wage that he gav them, and eighteen pounds for Stiles.

\---

Derek liked Whitby, or more specifically, he liked Stiles liking Whitby. Stiles had been excited for the start of the journey, pointing out things with the eagerness of a small child shown new wonders. He pointed things out to the two of them, Parrish and Derek, as they rode. He had an apple cap perched on his head, and a heavy cloak draped over him, with a thick knitted scarf tied around his neck. He had refused gloves, arguing that he was not a competent enough rider to manage reins with them on, until Heather revealed that they were fingerless.

As fiercely independent as Stiles could be he had a tendency to give way under acts of bad tempered kindness, almost as if he had to be bullied into it.

It took about twenty minutes before Stiles got bored pointing out different kinds of trees and fell quiet as Derek and Parrish, more used to long rides, made light conversation between them about the plans for the house and a shared experience of attending university, although they had gone to different institutions. When they arrived in Whitby, visiting an inn to stable the horses, Stiles had slid down from the horse with a sigh of relief, before walking bow legged to work out the tightness in his thighs.

Stiles loved Whitby. He loved how busy it was, stopping in the middle of the thoroughfare to point out things, if it was a naval officer or a tea shop with people gathered around, or alpha ladies in the latest fashions.

He hated the tailor, however, often smacking away the man's hands as he tried to take measurement, and Derek had to raise an eyebrow at him as the tailor's wife took the measurements, and Derek drank a cup of perfumed tea, sweetened with bergamot oil to soothe his nerves, and it was Derek that picked out the greatcoat for him, which was one that a young man had ordered but never collected. He did not take a more suitable hat though, preferring his own apple cap.

They ate an early supper in the inn where they had stabled their horses, with grease from the beef thick in the pease pudding and sat upon a trencher of bread on the plate, to sop up the gravy, washed down with small cups of bitter black coffee and mugs of warm ale. Parrish gave Stiles his handkerchief when he started licking the gravy from the side of his hand where it ran down his wrist. There was no chide about manners, just a handkerchief passed across the table, and two alphas surreptitiously adjusting themselves.

It was approaching dark when they left, not nearly as late as Derek had feared, with Stiles complaining about having to get back upon his horse, and saying that they should have taken the wagonette. The horse didn't seem impressed either.

\---

It happened very fast. The two betas were tucked into a dip in the road, behind a large bush, and Stiles was complaining that it was starting to rain, attracting the attention of both Parrish and Derek. Stiles was saying how whenever something cold and wet fell out of the sky it landed on him. Derek had told him that if he had taken a more suitable hat that water wouldn't be running down the back of his neck now, and instead he should flip up the back of his collar as the rain started to come down in earnest.

"Get down of yer 'orses and put yer 'ands where i can see em." The two men stood in the middle of the road, with flintlocks pointed at them. Derek loosened the latch on his saddlebag, revealing his own flintlock for easy grabbing. Robberies most often happened on the main highways, but it was not unthinkable that bandits would take advantage of the quiet roads out of a town like Whitby. "We'll take the boy and we won't 'ave any bother."

Most highwaymen wanted money or goods, this wasn't a robbery, Derek realised, his hand taking the flintlock's butt as Parrish slid to the floor, his own hand taking the sword cane like he had an infirmity. It was a kidnapping - they had been paid to take Stiles.

"Easy," Parrish said, as if he was quieting a horse, he spread his hands, although Derek knew the cane he had in one of them was being opened to reveal the sword hidden inside, and he had a long knife up his sleeve - with so many of the king's men in France the roads were dangerous, alphas often took precautions, and alphas were more violent if roused to anger - it was one of the reasons they were so highly prized for the war effort. "You may leave now and we won't be forced to get the constable, but the boy stays with us. We would have given you money, but you won't have him."

Derek's thighs tightened on his horse, pulling hard on the reins before he slapped it hard on the rump with the flat of his hand, driving the now rearing horse into them, so it landed on the beta on the left, trampling him. Parrish pulled his horse around to make a shield for Stiles but the beta on the right, perhaps shocked by Derek's sudden aggression, fired off a shot. Stiles cried out and then fell. Derek's vision went white, there was nothing but rage - a two shot repeating flintlock, and he fired once, into the man's head, then twice.

\---

Sat in the parsonage in Staithes Derek couldn't believe the amount of blood, he felt like it had bathed in it. He felt stick and itchy, like it was in his hair, and no matter how much he washed his hands he couldn't get it out from under his nails. Mrs Doyle had given him clean clothes, Mr Parrish's own, and hot milky tea, but he felt cold despite the fire roaring in the grate of the yellow parlour. He could still feel Stiles in his arms, looking so pale and washed out in the rain, and the smell of the blood, with that faint scent of lemons he always seemed to have about him.

The doctor was an older man with white hair brushed over a balding pate, small half moon glasses, and a coarse London accent. "He's going to be just fine." He told Derek, as he wiped his hands, and accepted a cup of tea, strong and black, from Mrs Doyle. Mrs Doyle, Parrish had said, never met a problem she didn't think could be solved with tea. "It looked much worse than it was," his tone was conciliatory, used to reassuring alphas. He was a doctor more used to dealing with sailors and they were often more violent, the sea was a harsh mistress which allowed them short lives with terrible injuries. Mrs Doyle told him that Dr Dent was among the very best in England. "Most of the blood came from his nose, which was broken when he fell, and the bullet graze on his shoulder. His collarbone was broken. I suggest bed rest for at least three days, and a sling until at least mid January, depending on how he heals. I've left a bottle of laudanum with Mrs Doyle, but I must advise you, as I told her, to use it very sparingly, and then only if he can't sleep, if you can use willow bark tea for the pain."

"Why?" Derek didn't understand. Most doctors swore by laudanum, they used it for everything.

"I never recommend laudanum for omegas, Mr Ruthven, it can very injurious on their systems."

If Derek had not been sat down he would have fallen. Stiles was an omega? that meant that Stiles was the ward - that Stiles was the one he had come to Yorkshire to find. That meant that Stiles wasn't his name, as Derek had assumed, but an abbreviation of the name that Parrish had found in the graveyard and ledgers, Stilinski. He had thought he had been given Mrs Talbot's maiden name, which he had heard happened in the North, and that she was his mother, and Stiles had never contradicted him. Instead he had been blatant with his name and Derek hadn't seen it.

Stiles had reminded him, again and again, of propriety - because he was an omega that could be ruined, and Derek hadn't seen it.

Mrs Crosier had spread the lie that Oliver was Stiles natural born son and Derek hadn't seen it.

Everyone had told him that there wasn't a child because Stiles was full grown, and Derek hadn't seen it.

And Derek hadn't seen it because a servant wouldn't be an omega, because omegas were precious and held in the highest esteem by society - so Derek, in his pride and knowing where people fell in society, hadn't seen it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to end the chapter with Stiles getting shot, but then I thought - no, if I had to wait on that cliffhanger heads would roll, so I'd leave you with the next one. I've hurt my hip so I'm running on a bit more of a delay than usual, because painkillers and the inability to sit for long periods. I'm okay, but jsut warning you that although I am still further than what I've typed up, it might take a little longer to update.  
> I'm still ahead of schedule though - go me


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter comes to visit Derek. Derek wishes he'd stayed in London.

Stiles was a terrible patient. He did his best to resist bedrest, which Mrs Doyle took to be at least eight days not three, refused pain relief then complaining that he hurt, and kept taking off his sling so he could use his hand. He was bored and insufferable for it. Miss Vane came daily, bringing the children, Oliver and Mary both glowed under her care. They clambered up unto his bed in the parsonage, because Mrs Doyle wasn't letting him out of her sight and clearly into the rat infested hovel she thought Wolfe Hall to be. The woman was surprisingly fierce.

Derek walked down into the town daily to visit him, and found that almost all of the town had sent him well wishes, except Mrs Crosier who maintained that Stiles had seduced Mr Parrish and had been set up in a sort of love nest to anyone who stood still long enough to listen. Her arguments that Stiles sought to compromise Mr Parrish felt short, when even her darling Jessamine told her if she wanted to tell stories then she knew the address to a publisher.

Although there were gifts of fruit, oranges especially which Stiles loved, and toffees he was unbearable because he couldn't sit. He couldn't stand. He couldn't lie down. His body was one giant bruise that ached even with the twice daily epsom salt baths that Mrs Doyle forced him into. He wanted his own clothes, his own bed and his own house. He wanted to read but couldn't hold a book open. He was hungry but couldn't cut up his food. He didn't want tea, but instead the rosehip monstrosity that he had dried himself - which Derek brought him as he wavered between guilt at having gotten him shot, his alpha instincts to protect a wounded omega, and the desire to smother him with a pillow.

He was, quite simply, insufferable.

Derek had received his correspondence, but instead of answering it, he was watching Stiles with Oliver crowded up on his lap, as the boy told him a story about his horse most of which was still baby babble. Miss Vane was acting as a chaperone, now that Derek knew that he needed one. Oliver's story involved the horse dancing across the bed in an attempt at a canter, but now the horse didn't look quite so pristine as it had nearly two weeks before, and Oliver had shucked most of his clothes so that his chubby little feet and legs were on display.

On the whole Derek didn't care for children, he had always found them to be messy, noisy things who were unexplicably sticky. He liked Laura's boys well enough, because he liked Laura and Theodore, at seven, was beginning to be capable of adult conversation, but Stiles clearly loved children, babies especially, and he was good with them, suddenly endlessly patient as Mrs Doyle delighted in teaching the girls to knit. Mrs Doyle, it turned out, had three grown sons but had always wanted daughters and was happy to teach them what she called the womanly arts.

Although Mrs Doyle seemed harsh and standoffish, and clearly believed there wasn't a problem that couldn't be solved with tea, she had been won over the instant Mary offered her a toffee.

Part of Derek wanted to be the one to give Stiles babies; to see his slim form swell and ripen with Derek's babies, to take him to Osterbrook Hall, or maybe the house in Derbyshire and let him fill it with laughter and sticky fat babies that laughed when he pulled them to him.

Thoughts like that were as improper as the thought of Stiles naked in that bed, flushed and sweaty, covered in kiss marks with his arms held out for his alpha - holding out those deceptively strong arms for Derek.

He was Stiles' guardian, not his lover, and he had to make that distinction clear in his own head. As lovely as the boy was, and bright and charming, he was not Derek's. He would take him to London: he would gie him the society season that was his due to his status as an omega; and then he would give him to the alpha that Stiles chose.

But he still wanted.

So he was glad when Susannah, Mr Parrish's only maid, - his household comprised of a butler, Mr Evesham, the housekeeper Mrs Doyle, and Susannah - knocked and entered, smiling at the image of the baby on the bed. "Sir," she said to Derek as Stiles blew raspberries on Oliver's fat tummy, and Derek was pretending to read and keep him and Miss Vane adult company. "The boy from the Seven Stars is here. He says that there is a gentleman at the inn asking for you He says he gave him a thruppeny bit just to carry the message. Mr Evesham thought it must be important. He wants to know if he should relieve the boy of his new treasure."

"No," Derek said, standing up, and putting the book he had been pretending to read, back on the seat behind him. Anyone in this town knew that Derek had spent the last four days in the parsonage with Stiles, so only an outsider would ask at the inn for him. "I'll talk to the boy."

\---

Jem Ives always gave the impression of being a motherless urchin no matter how hard his family tried to make him look respectable. He was stood at the stoop with Mr Evesham, who had the sort of face that b best suited a frown, and who was doing his best to tame the boy's cowlicks under his apple cap by licking his hand and smearing his hand over the hair to fix it in place. The boy was struggling against this and had somewhere gotten a long stripe of mud over his face and down his neck. "Mr Ruthven," the boy said, wriggling his arm fee from the butler. Jem was nine years old with a pair of front teeth he had yet to grow into. "Mam sent me to fetch ya."

"My mother sent me to fetch you." Evesham corrected with the sigh of someone who continued to fight a war long lost.

"Well, she didn't send me to fetch you, Mr," Jem said to the butler, "there's a man at the inn, right proper 'e is, asking about ya, say's you'll wanna see 'im, bought out all Mam's best rooms, and came by carriage 'e did, bee-utiful horses he 'as." 

The carriage ruled out Liam, who would have gone straight to Wolfe Hall, or any of the solicitors who would have come by post. He wondered if this had something to do with the attempt to kidnap Stiles, he'd heard about omega snatchers certainly, but that sort of thing happened on the continent. "What did this man look like?"

"Proper dandy he was, 'e 'ad 'is 'air slicked back, and only a bit of a beard, around 'is mouth like that portrait that Mr Parrish 'as, but not so much hair, the one with the girl's 'air and the lace tablecloth around 'is neck." The portrait that Jem referred to was of a cavalier. Derek knew the painting well, he got the impression that the alpha was judging him every time he walked past. "And real good manners too, gave me thruppence to find ya. I think he thought ya'd be up at t'hall, but I knew you'd be at the parsonage, but he was right keen to talk to ya."

Derek relaxed at the description of the man, because he did know him. It was his uncle Peter. "He said ya'd give me another thruppence for the message." The boy said holding out his hand.

Although it was likely that Peter had said that, he told the boy "don't press your luck" before fetching his hat and coat from the hall way stand.

\---

Peter Hale looked entirely out of place in the Seven Stars Inn. He was perfectly groomed to the point that it was almost possible to see a reflection in the shine of his boots. Derek wondered if Mrs Ives had wiped down the chair that he was sat on to preserve his white breeches, and the half empty pewter mug of ale in front of him looked ridiculous. Wolfe Hall had many flaws, but it could not count it's ale among them.

"Derek," Peter said standing up, "You arrived a lot sooner than I thought you would."

"I was at the parsonage," Derek told him, taking the seat opposite him, "It didn't take Jem long to find you, I think he saw you coming." He wanted to know why his uncle was here in Yorkshire. Peter never left London, but Peter seemed more interested in empty pleasantries.

"You look well," his uncle told him, "the sea air has clearly been good for you, although I cannot say that this," he ran his hand over his own face to highlight Derek's beard which had grown a little ragged in the past weeks, "is welcome. Liam must be despairing of you."

"I haven't seen him in just over a month." Derek told him, hoping Peter would get to the point soon.

The girl's entrance into the main room of the inn caused silence to descend over the patrons like a blanket. She was young, no older than eighteen, still round with baby fat but she was also remarkably beautiful with cream pale skin and copper curls that were gathered at the nape of her neck with a length of green velvet ribbon. She wore a green velvet riding habit with a dove grey silk bows along it's front, and the same colour trimmed the collar and wide cuffs, which matched her soft skirt.

Instead of the cylindrical style of alphas, or the perfunctory styles of betas, she wore the sumptuous hour glass shape of an omega, and when she moved the little bells at the lobes of her ears, under tiny dark green ribbons, jingled in a pleasing manner that Derek suspected would be the height of fashion by summer.

When she saw Derek she smiled softly, but he felt nothing from his alpha instincts, which less than twenty minutes ago had been going crazy. She walked with a soft sway that caused the hems of her skirts to swirl around her ankles like sea foam. For all that she was beautiful, and she was, she was a tiny thing and Derek had the impression that she might fit in the palm of his hand.

"My lord," she said in a voice that sounded like a length of silk dragged through rocks, "I'm so pleased to finally make your acquaintance, I'm Lydia, Peter's wife."

Derek blinked at the girl as she sat at their table, gloved hands smoothing out the skirt from under her. "Don't worry," she said with a pretty smile, "everyone we've told has reacted with shock, I don't think anyone ever thought he'd marry." Peter was clearly besotted. He had written a lot about McCall's inappropriate love affair but had not mentioned that he was even considering courting let alone the intention to marry. The last he had mentioned was that he was visiting with the Martins, who had five omega daughters, three of which remained unmarried - Derek supposed it was two now.

His instinctive answer to the problem was that Peter had been caught compromising the girl, although Derek knew his uncle, who was a well known rake, was usually very circumspect about these things, and dallying with an unmarried omega with her parents in the house was just stupid.

"I am sorry, my lady," Derek told her politely, "but you caught me unawares. I had thought my uncle would be a confirmed bachelor until his dying days."

Her smile was a sharp, ferocious thing, and her eyes were tight and hard, and this close he could see how she used slight but clever cosmetics to make her appear even more beautiful than nature had blessed her with. This was a girl who, if she had been presented for a season, would have been the diamond of the ton, with all manner of alphas vying for her hand. There would have been duels fought for her.

"We are family," she corrected him, "you must call me Lydia. Peter wished to steal away to Yorkshire to let you know, whilst I found my feet in the Grosvenor Street house, but I was loathe to let him out of my sight so soon, I worried that he might try to escape to the continent." Derek started to wonder if she had compromised him.

"I must admit, I would not put it past him." Derek told her.

"You give the impression that no one trusts me." Peter was the very picture of fake hurt at the implication.

"that's because no one trusts you, my love." Lydia told him.

"Fair enough," Peter said, taking her hand in his and kissing the skin between her thumb and finger, but Derek could see the way that he looked at her he was clearly besotted, but not, like McCall, to the point where he lost his wits. She smiled back at him, and it was more genuine than the smile she had offered Derek.

"Are you staying here at the inn?" Derek asked, mentally working out if anywhere in Wolfe Hal was suitable for guests. Peter would have conniptions about the state of the manor, and Stiles would have conniptions that when he finally got guests he was bedbound in the parsonage.

"So," Peter said, changing his posture so he sat more comfortably, "you must tell me all about your boy," his tone was conspiratorial, "we will be stuck here for at least a few days before even attempting the trip back to London. I am sure that even such a small village has it's share of gossip."

Mrs Ives interrupted them, and Derek was glad of it. "My Lady," she told Lydia with a low curtsey, "the upstairs parlour is now ready, if you'd prefer to take your tea there." Lydia smiled as she stood up. Derek hadn't even known the inn had an upstairs parlour. He had always eaten in the taproom with everyone else, and he wondered if a bed had been dragged out from the room, of it was Mrs Ives own parlour.

"Thank you, Mrs Ives," Lydia's manners were perfect, even better than Peter's, who Derek had always considered to be a paragon. "I'm certain it will be ideal." Mrs Ives pleasure at the compliment took years off her face, and Derek wondered if this girl, and she was certainly no older than Stiles, would be good for Peter.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we start Part 2  
> Welcome to London, Derek would like it more if anyone were speaking to him

Part 2

\--

The London Season coincided with the winter parliamentary session. It had originally been planned to entertain the returning members of parliament and had quickly become the place where debutantes were presented to the court and society in the hopes of finding them a husband. There were several such seasons around the country, none of which corresponded with London. Anyone who could afford to come to London to be presented, did, but the same was true of Bath or Harrogate. What it meant was that most of these debutantes would be married by the closing of Parliament, and those who weren't would travel to Bath to continue their intentions.

The London season was expensive for anyone who was presenting, as it required a whole new wardrobe in colours that, because they were _de rigeur_ for the debutantes - white or pale pastels - were most expensive. There was also the hiring of an abigail, a dresser whose job was to best present the debutante, a maid and a hair dresser. Jewellery was taken from the family vaults. Then there was the expectation that those with the blunt to present would host a ball, as well as those who simply thrived on that sort of party, so there was the hiring of a venue to host a ball. There were other expenses, trips to the opera, carriage rides - if the house did not own a personal carriage - and an obscene amount of correspondence which needed franking - and then the food to feed the people who came simply for something to do.

Lydia had four sisters each of which had had at least one London season s she was well aware of the expense, and was, to Stiles' horror, delighted at the idea of managing it as the only Lady Hale. Between her and Stiles, who kept trying to act as housekeeper much to the actual housekeeper's ire - meaning she often complained directly to Derek - the house had never run so well.

As it was the two of them were sat around a small table in the library with paper and charcoal sketching out alterations to a book of the latest fashions to decide what Stiles would wear for his coming out. Peter was actively taking part, whilst pretending not to, making suggestions and comments about Stiles' best attributes, which included his tight calves, Stiles smacked him on the arm for that, and his tighter ass, Lydia smacked him then and Peter laughed.

Derek tried not to notice how easily the boy had slid into his family - instead he signed off on every expense and kept Peter's list of known fortune hunters on hand. As Stiles' guardian any suitor looking for him, or his fifteen thousand pounds, would need to ask Derek's permission.

Stiles' availability for marriage presented another conundrum, although Peter was more than happy to be present and introduce Stiles, Derek wanted to be there to make sure he only accepted dances from suitable suitors - even if Stiles still wasn't talking to him.

Stiles had been furious when he found out about the deception and in the week and a half since they had left Yorkshire he had only deigned to speak to Derek through an intermediary. Peter found that hilarious.

Worse still everyone else was siding with him. He might understand that Derek lied because he had wanted to find what he considered to be an endangered child., but when he discovered that Stiles was the ward he had searched for, and understanding that Stiles' own deception was to protect his staff who had been stealing from the estate in order to maintain it, he should have - to quote Stiles - alphaed up and told him the truth, that he wasn't Derek Ruthven, but Frederick Ruthven Hale, and not let Lydia, who had no warning of the duplicity to make a fool of herself.

Yet Derek liked having Stiles in his house, arguing with Lydia over whether or not he should wear an embellished sling, or whether carp or goose was more appropriate for Christmas supper. With the two of them even, even bickering as they were, it made it feel like home.

\--

The abigail that Derek hired was called Jennifer Blake, and she was hired sight unseen from an employment agency, because this close to the season the usual method of hiring one - a long protracted process - was impossible, so Derek had to trust that the agency had at least offered the best they had. They said she had worked mostly in Bath, and cited a few references, but admitted that because she was new they hadn't had a chance to check them, but believed there would be no inconsistencies as the agency she had worked for before was impeccable. They had explained the inconsistencies were due to a lack of time and the pressing need having made things difficult, but they would deliver the references as soon as they received them. Derek trusted them, after all he used the same employment agency for all of his staff, and he didn't think that they'd dare to lose his business.

Miss Blake was a slim, tall beta woman with a sort of sharp prettiness and dark curls she wore pinned around her face. She wore the fashion suitable to a beta, and covered her hair in a cotton cap like a spinster or widow. She wore a brown linen bodice, printed with red and gold roses, with an embroidered silk stomacher, and a thick sage coloured wool skirt, but a pair of emerald green quilted velvet shoes, the sort Derek remembered Lydia dismissing as too showy. She wore no jewellery around her neck, which best showed the dip of her neckline and her pale decolletage which was prettily framed by the edge of her chemise. She was however, wearing a pair of pearl ear fobs, which Derek assumed were a gift from her previous mistress.

She was polite and bonny, with bright spirits and impeccable manners. Within the first evening of her stay she had proven herself a dab hand with a needle and thread, mending one of Derek's jackets that had been damaged in the laundry. Derek was so pleased that she had saved the jacket, which was one of his favourites, that he not only saved the washer woman from a scolding but invited Miss Blake to supper the following day.

Lydia immediately despised her, but Derek suspected that it was because she had been eager to manage Stiles' season herself. And because Lydia did not care for her, neither did Peter, and Stiles wasn't talking to Derek so he kept his opinions to himself.

\--

The dining room was lit by candelabrum set at distinct lengths down the table. Derek sat at the head, with Peter and Lydia sat to his left and Stiles and Miss Blake to his right. There was a sweet clear vegetable soup in front of them. Stiles reached across the table, with his good arm, although he was not wearing his sling, for a roll placed in a basket on the table for that exact purpose. "No, Władysław." Miss Blake said softly, putting her hand on his sling, "you're not in Yorkshire now." Realising that the conversation had stopped and all eyes were on her, she tried to defuse the situation. "Ask to be passed the bread, a society omega does not reach out across the table." Stiles took a roll from the basket that Derek offered him, but made no attempt to break it apart with his fingers, or cut it with his knife.

"I'm quite certain," Lydia said, "that Stiles is aware that he needs to be as presentable as possible at society dinners, but we do not require society manners when it is just family." Her tone was as cold as the white wine in front of them.

"My apologies, my lady," Miss Blake said doffing her head, but her tone was sweet and not at all conciliatory. "I was hired to make sure that Władysław is presentable amongst the very upper echelons of society."

"Vidame." Lydia corrected.

Miss Blake didn't react other than to open her mouth to qualify what Lydia meant.

"His title is Vidame, and you will address him as such." Peter said, "of course, being a society tutor you should be aware of that and address him accordingly."

"But," Miss Blake started but Peter cut her off, raising his hand.

"No buts, Miss Blake, Stiles is not a milk fed beta girl with a father in trade. He is Vidame, an omega with associations not only to the Stilinski family of Warsaw, but the Montforts, and he is the ward of the Hale family. But even if he was penniless, he could not offend society and would marry well by virtue of being Vidame. If you cannot remember that he is a cherished member of this family you will be let go." It wasn't like Peter to react so harshly to the staff, mostly he just ignored them.

"Peter," Stiles said, spreading his hands to calm the situation, "it's fine, she's right. It needs to be second nature for me."

Derek reached across the table, standing up to reach the basket which Miss Blake had moved to the bottom of the table, and took a roll in his hands. He said nothing, just tore the roll apart with his fingers, and dipped it into the soup, like he might were he a workman in a roadside inn - deliberately performing all of the things that Miss Blake had chided Stiles for.

\--

"I will be taking Stiles to the modiste tomorrow." Lydia said as the fish course was cleared away.

"I have a list of," Miss Blake started.

Lydia silenced her with a look. "I have my own modiste, Miss Blake, whom I trust implicitly, unless you do not trust my judgement."

"Certainly not, my lady, I merely wanted to make things simpler for you. As I understand it you are new to London and might not know which modistes offer the best tailoring."

"I can assure you," Peter said, "my wife's taste is exquisite, and her modiste is, like she herself, exceptional. They are also used to omega clients and know how best to dress them." He could make drinking a mouthful of wine menacing with his pause. Peter clearly did not like Miss Blake and he made no secret of it. Derek would not invite her to supper again for fear the tension made them all dyspeptic.

Derek didn't know why, buy he found her to be quite charming.

"Might I enquire as to the name of your modiste, my lady?" Miss Blake's voice never lost it's sweetness. "Although I defer to your expertise next season I will almost certainly have another charge, as I'm sure vidame will marry, but then I might recommend them to my new charge."

"No." Lydia said crisply, "I do not trust your taste, Miss Blake," she looked her up and down, "for example, don't think that I haven't noticed that Stiles is not wearing his sling."

Stiles went to say something but Miss Blake answered for him. "Vidame complained that it was hurting his neck. I offered him an alternative but he refused."

"The doctor suggested that it be worn until Epiphany at the earliest." Lydia told Miss Blake. "You'll heal wrong if you don't listen," her entire manner changed from arch to soft as she addressed Stiles. "I'm sure something can be put together to ease the strain, perhaps a lavender pillow to go under the knot. I'd not see you hurt, Stiles, just for fashion."

"Oh look," Stiles tried to change the subject as the maids started putting plates in front of them, "doesn't the pork look wonderful."

\--

After supper Lydia and Stiles both retired to bed, Miss Blake excused herself, but Peter and Derek went into the parlour to drink brandy, as they always had after dinner. "You seem out of sorts today, uncle." Derek said, taking one of the couches, "what are you up to?"

Peter smiled, pouring himself a brandy before he took the other couch, facing his nephew. "You malign me, nephew, I'm up to so many things that I am insulted you think I'm only up to one, but you will have to offer me some specificity into what it is you accuse me of."

Derek, unlike his uncle, was not one for being vague or allusions in his conversation. "Is Lydia pregnant, is that why you married her?"

Peter burst out laughing. "I can assure you that that is not the case, even if she currently wasn't on her courses that she wouldn't be, she knew more about contraception than I did." Peter had never been one to hide his opinion behind societal expectations. "Nor did she compromise me, she said she went to her wedding bed a virgin and I believe it, for she was skilled in knowledge but not practise. I married Lydia as payment for a debt, but I find her most remarkable, and would thinks so even if she were not so lovely. So when she is ready to give me children I know that they'll be both handsome and clever, she's the only one I've found to match me in both." Peter had never been one to diminish his charms - he said that he could not for he made a point of never lying.

"She was payment for a debt?" Derek asked - it was not unheard of that marriages were arranged for such things. "How much did her father owe you?"

"Oh no, nephew, it was not her that was payment for the debt owed, I was. She won my hand in a game of baccarat, and refused to discharge it until we were legally wed." Derek could hear Peter's amusement and his pride in her. "Lydia is remarkable, and I am certainly glad to wait to marry until I met her. I doubt there would be another omega in England who would suit me half as well."

"If you needed money, uncle." Derek started.

"I assure you, Derek, I do not, but do not play cards with my wife." He said, "I have no doubt she would end up the next Lord Osterbrook."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Isaac Lahey comes to call, and Lydia goes shopping - Miss Blake is not invited.

"Derek," Lydia said at breakfast that morning. She often did not come down for the meal, preferring a tray to be sent up - Derek liked it too because it gave him the opportunity to eat belowstairs. Stiles had a tray as well since Miss Blake had taken over his care and Peter never surfaced before noon. Derek had gotten into the habit in Yorkshire and liked sitting by the large fireplace, although he had a modern range as well. It had, the first time that he had done it, disturbed Mrs Bridewell - the cook - who was not prepared to have the earl in her kitchen.

Now she just told him to stay out of her way pressing a bowl of porridge into his hands, sometimes he was left with a stool in the corner of her kitchen beside the fire, and had once been ordered to make himself useful if insisted on being there, having him periodically turn the spit upon which several chickens turned.

Lydia's appearance at breakfast caused a slight stir in the house hold, she was dressed in a brilliant red riding habit with a dark red velvet coat cut in the male omega fashion, parted over a high necked lighter red silk waistcoat decorated with white and gold print, with gold fittings, over a skirt in the same brilliant red silk, a high necked shirt, as was favoured by the men in society, and a lace cravat gathered by one his uncle's tie pins. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck by a bright red ribbon, a thinner version of which adorned her ear fobs. Derek did not doubt that she had a matching hat and cape.

Like Peter Lydia was always perfectly presented. "I will be taking Stiles to see the modiste today." She said calmly as she buttered a slice of bread in front of her. "I was wondering if you had any preference as to how I spend your money. If course he will need something spectacular for Almacks." She recited these things off as if they were gospel truth that everyone knew. "I would like one, the one I have is the most awful shade of pink, it's not my colour, it makes me look terribly sallow, so I shall bring it to the Yukimura's in the hope they can do something with it. It might still be dyed to something more attractive. My mother never listened to what suited me."

"Stiles is my ward," Derek told her, "I trust of course you will present him to best advantage, and give Miss Blake the best choice to make him wonderful."

Lydia laughed into her chocolate. "If you say so," her tone was fond, "but let's cut the shit here, Derek, I can see the way you look at him, and the way you look at him is the way a man looks at something he wants but thinks he cannot have."

"I am an earl, Lydia, there are very few things I can not have."

"Perhaps, Lord Osterbrook, you would do well to remember that." Lydia, having finished her meal, dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin before she stood up, placing her hand on his shoulder as she prepared to leave. "What colours do you think will best suit?"

"Gold." Derek surprised himself, "and red, for his day wear, I am aware he cannot wear it when he comes out." He watched her walk to the door, "your chaperone." he added, "take Betterwerth." Betterwerth was a boxer that Derek's father had hired to watch over Derek's omega brother, and he had boxed the ears of more than one over ardent suitor. He only survived the fire by being in London to fetch a parcel.

"Butter-worth-toast?" Lydia asked. She must have picked up the ridiculous nickname from Peter. "By your will, my lord." The way she said it gave Derek the impression that it was what she had intended all along and she was pandering to his ego. The worst thing was, he was pretty sure she was.

\--

Isaac Lahey was one of the biggest gossips in the ton. He had sent notice that he was going to call - after all it was possible that the person that they were going to call on might be calling on someone else if they received no word. The hours between noon and six were the prime hours for society calling so notices had to be sent and responded to or it was accepted that they were either out and visiting themselves or did not want you to call.

Lahey was a tall thin alpha with perfect clear skin and a head of dark blonde curls like an Italian image of an angel, his jawline had caused beta girls to swoon. Everything about Lahey was elfin and he made sure that he was always the picture of debauched perfection. He was wearing a dove grey superfine jacket and a crisp white vest, but had a soft white wool cravat on against the cold. He helped himself to a tumbler of brandy to warm him through. "Hell's bells, Hale," he said, "it's colder than Satan's tits out there."

"There's a fire in the grate." Derek said gesturing to the fire place but Lahey was already moving towards it, stood facing the room with his hands over his ass to warm them through. "The perfect image of the Englishman in ecstasy." Derek drawled watching him.

"Too bloody right," Lahey agreed. "I keep telling my father to send me to India with my brother where it's warm. I feel the cold like an omega."

"As if you would know how to react to actual work." Derek enjoyed this kind of banter with Lahey, although sometimes he took insult harder than it was intended. Lahey loathed his father, and any excursion from the family's holdings in India would have nothing to do with the weather and more getting away from his father. It had taken years for Lahey to become comfortable enough to banter with Derek, and a lot of that had to do with Peter's determination and dry wit.

"How are you not cold?" Lahey asked, finally noticing that Derek was not wearing a jacket to sit in his vest and shirt sleeves.

"The cold in Yorkshire seeped into my bones, and I'm finding London positively tropical." Derek told him, "But it's quite possible that either Stiles or Lydia left a shawl in here, or if they didn't I can certainly send for one for you."

"I'm desperate enough to meet your young omega, I'll forget the cold. How much a year did you say you were going to pension him off at?"

"I didn't." Derek growled, suddenly angry at the idea that Stiles would marry someone else even if he didn't realise why, especially someone who was only interested in his wealth and suggested marrying him sight unseen to get their hands on his account books. "But I was considering giving him the tenancy of Wolfe Hall in Yorkshire." As soon as Derek said it was true. "He's very fond of the place, of course Finstock is remodelling it now."

"Yorkshire, no thanks," Lahey said, "I've heard the people have developed fleece like sheep to counter the cold, and I doubt you could find a decent tipple in Harrogate."

"Be serious," Derek answered, pouring himself a cup of the tea on the tray in front of him. He liked it strong and black and on the verge of stewed. "It's not Scotland."

"Oh, speaking of McCall," Lahey finally left the fireplace to sit in one of the armchairs. "I'm not convinced your uncle wasn't responsible for that little spill from his horse."

"Peter?" Derek asked. It did make sense he supposed, he did need more time. "You should know by now not to underestimate him."

"Oh, I don't," Lahey agreed. "I thought he was going to box the archbishop's ears when he made him wait for his marriage license because he wanted to go to a money changer. I think I saw, that day, Peter's only living act of charity, when he told him to put the extra in the alms box. It was nearly two pounds." Peter doing anything for someone that didn't help him in any way was remarkable. Normally he gave to charity because he was trying to get under a beta's skirts.

"He must have wanted to marry her very badly." Derek hoped Lahey would take the hint and fill in the gossip. All Derek knew about his uncle's courtship of Lydia was that he hadn't compromised her but instead she had won him in a game of baccarat.

"I don't know much," Lahey said, "just that he knocked me up around nine in the morning because he needed a witness when he went to fetch a license and he had her married by her family clergyman by noon the same day. Her two sisters did not look best pleased."

"They're older." Derek told him, though he imagined that Lahey knew that. "Probably thought they'd marry before their baby sister, or regretting that she stole him out from under them as they saw it."

"Kitty's not so bad," Lahey mused, "nothing between her ears but lace and air, pretty enough though, but her sister is ghastly, plain and missish, it's no wonder either of them has found a suitable alpha. I wouldn't be surprised if that was why Kitty is still on the shelf, they think she might turn into her sister."

"The elder girls married well."

"That was before Mary was presented to society, they didn't know." Lahey said, "Between you and me Peter snapped her up as soon as he saw her, you know how good her is at picking the season's Incomparable regardless of them being married."

"He seems smitten." Derek answered, because it was true, Peter gave every impression of being utterly besotted.

"He always did enjoy celebrating his own cleverness." Lahey shrugged it off, "but I never thought he'd take a wife."

"My Lydia is incomparable." Peter said opening the door and entering, "and would be even if she were an alpha."

"I told you, Lahey," Derek said with a nod of his head, "smitten."

"My wife is as beautiful as a pit viper." Peter took one of the parlours armchairs, before he poured himself a cup of tea, scrunching his nose up at the colour of it before he added lemon, "who wouldn't be smitten, and she has the cutest little,"

"Uncle." Derek cut him off before he could go any further. 

"Ears," Peter continued blithely, with a smile. "She's also the only person I've met whose mind I consider a challenge. She is a perfect storm in the body of a goddess."

"I heard," Lahey said in that conspiratorial tone he used for gossip, "that she was promised to Lord Whittemore's son."

Peter laughed at the accusation. "Oh, she was, but she made a different decision. I think we can all agree, my delicate ego aside, that she traded up."

"True," Lahey agreed, "young Whittemore is an arrogant little prick who thinks that because his father is a lord that the world owes him."

"I always got the impression that he was over-compensating for the fact that his mother was a beta, and hoped to marry at least a duke's daughter." Peter was not being flattering to his erstwhile rival, "he's pretty enough to be an omega, but arrogant little prick describes him well enough."

"I quite like Lady Whittemore," Derek said, almost to himself. "I find her to be an excellent conversationalist."

"That's because, Hale, she talks even less than you do." Lahey smirked at him, "Has anyone gotten any more information about McCall's mystery paramour?"

"Since his mother took him to the country," Peter started, "by the ear I believe," he took a sip of his tea, "I asked dear Melissa to monitor his correspondence in the hope of finding out more. She thinks he might be using an intermediary."

"Dear Melissa?" Lahey raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in amusement. "Dare I ask how you referred to my mother before her death?"

"The most unfortunate Lady Lahey," Peter answered calmly. "But not for lack of trying on my part." Many alphas might have taken offence but Lahey was used to Peter's sense of humour, and the jibes could be much more hateful and dangerous than he was showing.

"He called my mother Ma'am." Derek said over the rim of his tea cup.

"Everyone called Talia Ma'am once they knew her, even Queen Charlotte." Peter always sounded so honest it was hard to tell if he was using hyperbole.

"True," Derek agreed with a smile. Talia Hale had been a fierce alpha and decorated soldier. "But I at least know that Peter didn't try to seduce my mother."

Lahey brayed out a laugh before getting up to pour himself more brandy. "So Lady McCall, or dear Melissa, is prepared to help us in our endeavour."

"Yes," Peter said, "although she wants her son to be happy in his marriage."

"Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance." It sounded like Lahey was quoting something but Derek didn't recognise it.

"Even so," Peter continued with a dark look at Lahey for being interrupted, "she knows that despite his adamance that "love will find a way" that he won't be happy in one of Derek's old cottages eating oats for every meal after she has run off with someone who can feed her."

"That's assuming I'd lend him a cottage," Derek said, "I've seen him gamble, he'd probably put it up for stakes."

"I'm sure there are some waterlogged ruins in Yorkshire you wouldn't miss." Lahey said, "but there are times when he is almost sensible."

"And then he sees a pair of skirts." Peter drawled.

"And that's how he'd lose the cottage." Derek finished.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the Hale household

It was amazing how much life that Stiles and Lydia brought to the house. As soon as they entered, footmen trailing with them, laden with parcels, it was like a switch had been flipped and the house was suddenly full of noise and laughter.

Lydia was laughing at Stiles' exaggerated impression of someone that they had encountered that day, mumming out one action or another. Derek wanted to know what it was that had made him laugh like that, but then Stiles saw something. Derek had thought that he was invisible hidden in the alcove between the doors as he was, but Stiles had clearly seen him if he suddenly went so still, ducking into one of the parlours as Lydia called for tea and sherry. It seemed they were a little drunk.

Stiles must still be very upset if he reacted so strongly to Derek's presence as the footmen went up the stairs. "Excuse me, Miss Blake," one of them said. She was descending as they rose.

"Oh, my lord," Miss Blake said with a quick curtsey where she passed Derek in the hallway. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

"My apologies, Miss Blake." He told her, "I was not easily seen from the hallways."

Her pretty face twisted into a frown, her hand to the hollow of her throat in concern. "Are you well, my lord? you seem a little disconsolate."

"I am merely a little out of sorts," he told her, "it is nothing of consequence or nothing that you could aid me with." He went to push past her but she didn't move, trapping him in place.

"You look like you've found yourself an outcast in your own home." She had clearly seen the way that Stiles had snubbed him. Was she observant enough to know how Derek felt, he wondered, no, she couldn't be, it wasn't possible. Stiles cutting him the way that he had in his home was new. Peter knew, but Peter always knew. "I know how that feels," Miss Blake continued, "I am very much left out of their inner circle. I wonder if I would not be best returning to the agency, if I hadn't taken over the mending I'd have nothing to do." She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders so that her fingers brought his attention to her breasts, pushed up by her stomacher - a pretty dark pink today. "I'm sorry, your lordship, I shouldn't bring my complaints to you." She was right. She should not. "It's just you looked a little lonely and I know how that feels. I'm sorry, I babble when I get nervous."

"It's well, Miss Blake, I was only deep in thought when my passage to the library was interrupted. It has simply broken my train of thought and now I fear I shall not get it back."

"What's keeping the brandy, Hale?" Lahey said, opening the door. "I knew we should have pulled the cord and have your man bring it." He stopped when he saw Miss Blake. "And I thought I knew all of your household, Hale, you've been holding back on me." He clearly looked her up and down, appraising her like a horse at show.

"Lahey, this is the Vidame's abigail, Jennifer Blake, Miss Blake, this is Lord Lahey. If you'll both excuse me I'll go and fetch more brandy." He walked into the parlour where he knew there was a tantalus, a locked selection of bottles, that he could take.

Lydia and Stiles had a few of their parcels on the table between their chairs. Stiles' cheeks were ruddy from the cold. "Oh, Derek," Lydia said as if they had not just cut him in the hallway. "Just the earl I wished to see, you can give us an alpha's opinion. What do you think of this." She stood up holding up a nightrail so sheer he could have read through both layers together. There was a golden ribbon at the collar but other than that there was simply yards of fine cotton lawn as soft as baby's breath.

It would leave nothing to the imagination, skirting along curves and clinging to thin thighs and the swell of knees, forming a dark shadow at the crotch, and the pink flash of nipples pressing through the fabric. His mouth went dry. He caught the fantasy of Stiles waiting for his alpha in his bed, waiting for him wearing this fragment of cotton and lace. He shoved it down within himself, resolved to share it later with his hand. "I'm sure Peter will adore it."

Lydia gave a bark of laughter, "he would look darling in it, Stiles, we must fetch another for Peter." They were both laughing now, "but this one is for Stiles."

Derek whited out for a second, thinking of the way that collar with it's froth of lace would slip down his arm, sliding away from his neck and shoulder revealing them to an eager mouth, as the other hand led Derek to his bed, where he would splay himself out in just that sheer fabric. Derek's face felt so hot so suddenly that he wondered if he were having a nosebleed from the blood that surged to his face. It took a long moment to collect himself. "It's late December," Lydia," he managed in what he hoped was an even tone, "he'd catch his death. If you intend to wear that on your wedding night, Stiles, you must marry in summer."

Stiles gave Lydia an arch look as Derek excused himself. "I told you," Derek heard Stiles say, "he wouldn't like it." And Lydia just laughed again, leaving Derek wondering if he was so very transparent.

\---

"What kept you?" Peter asked when Derek went back into the parlour.

"Your wife was showing me the new underclothes that she bought." HE didn't say that she had bought them for Stiles.

"Is she wearing them?" Peter asked. Derek shook his head, "then I have no idea what took you so long."

"You seem a little shaken," Lahey said with an arch grin, "I was under the impression that you had seen an omega's underthings before." Derek unlocked the tantalus and took the bottle of brandy, pouring everyone's glasses and hoping his hands weren't shaking too badly. "Unless Peter missed a vital part of your education."

"Unless Stiles is trying them on." Derek was glad that his beard covered his blush.

"Shouldn't his abigail be present for that?" Lahey asked, he had reached that state of drunken confusion that Derek suspected Peter had always intended for him. Lahey would spill the nation's secrets with a bellyfull of brandy. It was only openly known he did this so no one with secrets worth keeping, or those they didn't want accidentally spilled which sometimes they did, told them to Lahey. He was a gossip even sober.

Peter dismissed the idea with a noise of distaste, "that woman knows less about fashion than Desdemona Greenberg." Desdemona Greenberg was a plain alpha girl who wore a collection of bright colours in conjunction with each other that made the person talking to her wish for blindness. There was never a pattern that Greenberg didn't fall in love with and wear in colour combinations that would have suited no one. In a city where restraint was valued Greenberg had decided it wasn't for her. "And she seems to have no idea what her place as an abigail is."

"She's pretty enough," Lahey said with a shrug, "I imagine the alpha parent of her last client didn't choose her for her taste."

"She came from Bath." Peter stressed the word. "Maybe it's what they do there. You should have seen what she suggested for Stiles' coming out. Rebecca, my wife's maid, said it was not fit even for rags. If she thought his best jacket from Yorkshire was even suited for collecting parcels in London then I fear for Bath and it's taste."

"I had not thought you so interested in his coming out." Derek said calmly, he had a moment's flash of jealousy although Peter had a new wife with whom he was besotted.

"You know me, nephew, I love my schemes and games, and it gives me something with which to amuse myself this season. But I must despair of an abigail that does not plan to take her charge to a modiste. Most are willing to do it just for the blackhander." The payments lady's maids received for bringing orders to vendors were universal, most of the gentry considered it part of their servant's wage. The more expensive the tradesmen the bigger the cut the servant got of the final payment.

"THat is strange." Lahey admitted, "but maybe they just don't do that in Bath."

"THey do that in Yorkshire." Derek corrected him, being surprised at the three shillings that the grocer in Staithes had given him when he put in an order for Wolfe Hall. "It is probably only that she thought I would take him to my tailor, or thought to skimp on his wardrobe."

"Perhaps that's also why he has stopped taking his supper with us." Peter mused, "maybe that's what they do in Bath, it's possibly also why he creeps into the kitchens at night and stuffs his face with leftovers."

"If she is so useless," Lahey began, "why don't you just let her go?"

"Yes, Derek, why don't we?" Peter asked.

"IT is the start of the season," Derek explained, "I'm sure she will find her feet soon enough. Derek began to wonder if Peter had another motive than just a continuance of Lydia's bad temper.

\--

Lahey stayed for dinner, which had the glorious advantage of preventing the awkward silence, although he was not naturally loquacious and could be shy, his very presence motivated the conversation. Stiles was silent, pushing his foot around his plate. Lydia, who had not seen Lahey since her wedding day, was happy to talk about her plans for the season - what she intended to wear, and which shows she planned to attend. She appeared the very image of the perfect vacuous society omega, a pretty accessory to hang on any alpha's arms wit a head full of lace and ribbons, as if only the day before she had not been reading Dr Wollstonecraft's article upon the practical applications of galvanisation upon corpses in a way that suggested that she not only understood the principles in question, but intended to call on the doctor with questions. Yet, with Lahey at her table, she played the role to perfection.

She was charming, witty, and laughed at his jokes, which were desperately unfunny, and played the flirt with him, accepting his flattery with charm and a pretty blush, but when she and Stiles went to the parlour to drink coffee and play cards her demeanour changed and she crowded up beside him, the skirts of her dress, a peach one with a bodice covered in black lace that gave the impression of skin under the pattern of flowers, a dress Derek could imagine cost a large fortune due to the cost of making lace which was a time intensive process, but the same pattern was printed on her skirts which rustled like the wind in the acacias of the Grosvenor Street house garden, brushing tight against his legs, like she was trying to hide him under them.

"If you will excuse us, gentlemen," she said, "Stiles is still rather new to the card games that society uses to pass the time, I am still training him," there were flashes of the peach silk at her cuffs but the fabric made her pale skin glow in the gaslight, and her hair was pulled up to reveal the perfect line of her neck, in a braided crown about her hair like that of an alpine milk maid, which let the diamonds around her neck shine with a brilliance to rival her eyes.

"A person I can beat at cards?" Lahey laughed, "please do not teach him too well, Lady Hale, or I shall have to quit the tables completely."

Stiles offered Lahey a tired smile, "it will be a while, my lord, before I take the tables myself."

"A Vidame does not need to play well to brighten the tables, you will find many alphas will bankrupt themselves merely to please you."

Stiles cocked his head, his dark blue velvet coat embroidered with silver framing his loveliness, with his hair oiled and a pair of silver studs in his ears and a cravat pin with a sapphire as his only jewellery. He looked lovely, but pale, Derek thought, and there were dark shadows around his eyes, and his mouth seemed paler than usual. Was Derek's company so abhorrent, he thought, that Stiles looked so unwell. "You will find, my lord, that I am unusual in my tastes," his voice was soft, "and I am well pleased to make do, I would not take such wealth."

"All the better." Lahey laughed, "then I would not feel bad about losing a fortune to you at the tables, content you had won them fairly. Come Hale," he said putting his arm through Peter's who rolled his eyes, "we should leave them to their game."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before Stiles comes out

Lydia decided that Stiles would not come out until after he had lost his sling and he would attend the Billingham Ball, which gave him two reasons to celebrate at Epiphany. Lydia plied him with chocolates and brandy, and together they danced around the south parlour whilst Peter played the pianoforte for them. Peter had a fine tenor when he sang, although it took several glasses of whiskey to get there.

He clearly adored Lydia and so when she asked him he simply took the piano stool and had Derek turn the pages for him as the two omega took a turn about the parlour.

"Derek," Lydia said as their set ended, "you must help Stiles with his waltz. I am not prepared to lead him, he has a whole head on me, a pity that we do not have a fifth that I might dance as well."

"Come, pet," Peter said, patting the stool for her to sit beside him. Derek had to stand. "You can turn the pages for me, have I told you tonight how lovely you look." Lydia was wearing a pale teal green colour that was just too dark to be considered a pastel, with a slight ruffle of a slightly darker colour, and trimmed in white silk. She wore it with a fall of diamond chips and emeralds that Derek recognised as having belonged to his mother. Unlike most Vidame, Stiles only wore his silver studs in his ears, the tips of which remained modestly covered by his hair. His jacket was an immodest red Stevenson embroidered with gold wire to match the soft satin lining. The sleeves were open to the elbow to show his shirt, and it, along with the odd cut of the jacket which was short even for an alpha, gave the whole ensemble a rather Baltic feel.

Lydia's modiste, Mrs Yukimura, had excelled herself, making Stiles vest in the alpha fashion but in a pale gold with matching knee breeches and stockings, giving him the impression of having been touched by Midas except for his scarlet velvet coat, and the silver studs where gold would have suited better.

Stiles offered a bow to Derek, the one a Vidame offered a dance partner and raised his arms to begin the waltz. "You must excuse me, my lord," he said as Derek took his hand and placed his own non-dominant hand on the small of Stiles' back, under the jacket. "I'm a little too clumsy to waltz well."

"And I too stiff." Derek agreed, as behind them Peter began to play. The waltz was relatively new to London, only seen in society for a few years, and was generally considered indecent. Both Harrogate and Manchester society refused to allow it, and the sentiments were shared in many of England's smaller towns and cities. The very idea of a couple almost embracing was scandalous, but it was a simple dance, a simple three step turn. Derek could feel the heat of Stiles' body through the satin at the small of his back, and Stiles rested his corresponding arm on Derek's shoulder, the other hand in Derek's own. 

"How close we are." Stiles murmured as they started to move, "now I see why this dance is so infamous, you must let me know if you compromise me."

Derek laughed, glad that at last Stiles was no longer snubbing him. "When I intend to compromise you," Derek told him, "you will certainly know it."

Stiles grinned back at him. "I shall have to make a note in my calendar then, I'd hate to miss it because I wasn't paying attention."

It felt much better to Derek that Stiles was willing to make love to him again, it was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His only sorrow was that he had to get Stiles drunk to do it. "Then I shall have to make sure your entire attention is fixed on me."

"And how will you do that, my lord, I am known as something of a flitterwit." 

Stiles fit in his harms so comfortably it was as if he were designed for it, Derek thought to himself. They danced with an ease that denied Stiles' inexperience and Derek's usual stiffness. "Perhaps, Vidame, I will make it that you can only focus on me, I shall take all of your senses until I am your every thought," Stiles flushed a little, "so that you will only think of me."

"If only you were constant," Stiles said, "if you'll excuse me, my lord, I feel a headache coming on."

He went to pull away from the dance but Derek kept his hand. "Will you speak to me now, Stiles, it's been harrowing living with your snub."

"A snub?" STiles asked, he sounded angry. "I had thought you would appreciate my attempts at propriety, after all I will be representing your household at the marriage mart. I would think that you would be proud of my manners so that you may brag to my future alpha about how you smoothed away all my rough edges to present me to society."

Derek was silenced by the flash of sudden bile; by how beautiful that Stiles looked when he was angry - by how the colour flooded Stiles' cheeks, the dark line of lashes over his brilliant brandy butter coloured eyes, and the slick shine on his lips where he licked at them. There were worse fates, Derek realised, than a life married to such a creature. He knew that Stiles' alpha would be blessed, because Stiles didn't want him.

He let Stiles hand drop at last. "Then I apologise." Derek said, "your manners are impeccable, Vidame, but I miss the cheer you used to bring to me when we talk. I miss the conversations." It cost him a lot to say that, but Derek wanted, at least, that they be friends. He couldn't imagine a life without Stiles in it in some way now, and he would not.

"We never conversed, my lord," it was not bile in Stiles voice now when he said the title, but regret. "We argued."

"Then I miss our arguments," Derek made the correction for him. "Things were simpler in Yorkshire."

"They were," Stiles agreed, "for I knew where I stood, as a beta servant I was not good enough for anything but a dalliance, one your vaunted morals kept you from, so I knew I did not have to bother with all this London bullshit." With that he left the room. Lydia, who still been sat on the stool next to her husband, turned and kissed Peter on the lips in an uncommon show of affection for such a setting, before she went after Stiles.

"Is that going to happen every time you dance?" Peter asked, "in that case I do not know if I should fill Stiles' dance card with only your name, just for the entertainment it'll provide." Derek ignored his uncle and went to the decanter, pouring himself a large measure of whiskey, drinking it in large swallows regardless of the burn. "Perhaps you will listen to the advice of an old married man."

"Be still, Peter," Derek told him, "you've been married for barely six weeks."

"True but I still know some things that you obviously do not. Something here in London is making him miserable, we must find that spot of canker and cut it out." Something in Peter's tone suggested that not only was it a problem that he had identified but one he was working on removing himself.

"And if I am the problem?" Derek asked, filling his glass again.

"If you were the problem he'd still be in that derelict hole in Yorkshire, and not an alpha in England could remove him without chloroform and rope." Derek looked at his uncle, suddenly wondered if he knew exactly how to do that. "Our little Vidame has been fiercely independent since early childhood because he was forced to look after not only himself, but his entire household of odds and ends that found their way to him. If he didn't want to be here, nephew, you know as well as I that he would have taken a horse and returned to Yorkshire with his reputation in tatters behind him and he would not care a jot." Derek did not like his uncle's honesty but he couldn't deny it. Until Stiles had gotten shot he kept just enough lip service to propriety to keep himself from being compromised, so he would not lose Wolfe Hall. Stiles acted the way he did to protect Wolfe Hall.

"Now something in this house is making him desperately unhappy, nephew, and it's not you, but it needs to be ousted and soon. I, for one, do not enjoying sleeping with my wife who once again, I imagine, will be sharing her bed with our young Vidame."

"Should we then remove him from society, if it's making him so unhappy?"

Peter made a frustrated noise and held out his hand, "I am not nearly drunk enough for this conversation."

\---

The day of Stiles' debut dawned crisp and clear with a heavy frost on the ground, remnants of which were still on the grass by the time Lydia came down, wearing a soft chemise dress belted at the waist with a wide blue silk sash.

"You look well, dear aunt." Derek greeted her. He had drunk far too much the previous night and now every muscle ached with the simple exertion of breathing. His skin felt like it had been swapped out for that of the Christmas carp, and there was a led weight currently in his skull. He was drinking a teacup of Mrs Bridewell's strong black coffee, which was normally served in much smaller cups.

Lydia raised a sculpted eyebrow at the appellation. She had had her hair dressed into a cloud of curls popular at the moment for omegas, and dusted with powder before being gathered on one shoulder in a perfect thick ringlet. She looked beautiful even though she was clearly dressed in a way that meant, apart from her hair, she'd make the effort later. Her gown looked comfortable in a way her silk mantua did not. She poured herself a cup of tea as she spoke. "You are in high spirits today, nephew, perhaps I should ask Mrs Bridewell to prepare you bacon and blood pudding." Derek's stomach roiled at the very idea, "instead of peppermint and willow bark tea." Derek was glad that the roiling, which increased at the sound of the tea, merely belched.

"I am aware of the consequences of last night's overindulgence," he said, he was certainly suffering for it. "It's merely how adult you look with your hair dressed like that."

"I am not the one to set fashion," she said in a manner that suggested it was only a matter of time before she did. "I would prefer of course the alpha chignon, it is much easier to unpin. As it is if I intend to wear this style again I shall have to purchase a wig, it's interminable to put in, and painful to wash out."

"Regardless, you look well, and now I have complimented you, you will overlook me resting my forehead on the table."

Caitlin, Stiles personal maid, a girl with oliver skin, black eyes and darker voice, one like treacle mixed with chocolate, knocked and entered. "My lady," she dropped a quick curtsey, "you must come, it's Vidame." Derek's heart stopped in his chest and he would have liked to say it was the hangover.

"What is the problem?" Lydia asked calmly, as though horrors were not flitting through Derek's head, that the men in Yorkshire had associates who had crawled into his window and taken him in the night; he had died suddenly; he had the pox; and a hundred other horrors, each less realistic than the last all of which left Derek feeling hollow.

"The white jacket with the jacquard flowers," Caitlin said, "the one with the gold embroidery, he tried it at Miss Blake's urging and it doesn't fit. It's too small in the waist and hips." Derek started to breathe again. "She's insisting that he wear the black Stevenson instead."

"That simply won't do," Lydia's tone was calm as she stood up in a rustle of white cotton. "Caitlin, go fetch Rebecca and Emily from their breakfast with my apologies. At least we have hours to fix it, even if we must fetch Mrs Yukimura to do it. I will deal with the perennially inappropriate Miss Blake, I do hope she won't cry again, I do hate women who cry to get their own way."

\--

Stiles attended the Billingham ball wearing gold and white, and Miss Blake had run to her room in tears. Peter had suggested that her emotions warranted a trip to French Colonial Africa to see it's like as he hadn't thought a crocodile could weep. 

It didn't matter, Derek thought, Stiles coming out meant more than the upset of an incompetent abigail.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek attend the Billingham Ball

The Billingham ball was hardly the event of the season, but it was one that the Comptesse de Marseilles attended, as she had a close relationship to Lord Billingham, and there were those that believed she was his lover. The Comptesse was one of the proprietresses of Almacks, so if someone wanted a voucher to actually attend the most exclusive club in London, they found her there. So although Stiles, by virtue of being presented by Peter - who knew the Comptesse well, already had his vouchers, it gave the illusion that she had met him at the ball. It satisfied the proprieties of society well.

Stiles wore an off white suit with a knee length coat and vest both of which were heavily trimmed in gold braid, but what caused a stir was not the beautiful nature of the cut, but instead the birds and flowers woven into the fabric.

There were a few comments that Derek heard about how the Hales were clearly scouring the country for the most lovely omegas to present, even if Peter Hale, one of the most notorious rakehells and seducers in the country- whom no one had ever expected to marry - had whisked one of them away. There were of course a few crude comments. Garrison Myers, a shipping magnate who had lost the largest portion of his fortune in bad investments - he still claimed that he was unaware of how that branch of the Argent family which which he had invested, were working for the French. The Argent family had split into two long before Catherine had burned the Hale house for the French, so it was possible that Myers did not know, but Derek resisted the urge to smash his face in. Myers interest in Stiles had less to do with his beauty, despite the lewd comments about his mouth, and was entirely about the fifteen thousand pounds he brought with him to the marriage bed. 

Derek didn't know how everyone learned about the dowries, but they did, and they brought with them the fortune hunters, after all it was expensive to present an omega at court, but an alpha had to do nothing but be there to court them.

Richard Reddick, an alpha from the north made a comment about Stiles thighs, and he certainly was not suitable, despite being barely four and forty he had buried three omega already and each in more suspicious circumstances than the last, and was known to be looking for the fourth. It was said he liked to inflict pain on his lovers, so although he did not need the money, he was not going to be welcomed as a suitor.

Lydia had pencilled in Stiles fourth dance for Derek, so he'd deliberately have a time to rest, but Derek walked over to Stiles with two champagne flutes. If this time was for him, he would take it. "Are you thirsty?" Derek asked, holding out one of the glasses. Stiles turned from where he was talking to a alpha in a rose coloured satin dress with a head full of dark curls. She was handsome enough but Derek decided in an instant he didn't like her.

Stiles beamed and took the glass from him, his fingers touching Derek's skin like the application of a Galvani cell, and drank half of the wine down in a single swallow. Derek watched the shine of it on his lips and the bobbing of his throat. "It's so warm in here, you wouldn't think it with being January and all the windows being open, but it's so warm. I could drink that glass a hundred times over."

"I believe I have this dance," Derek said, "unless you'd rather walk about the garden." It was an offer. 

Derek watched Stiles consider it, the gardens would have a crisp coldness and the room was hot and crowded. Stiles clearly wanted to go outside but he was afraid for his reputation. "There is a walkway beside the doors, if we stay in the light where we can be seen there is no risk to your reputation, there are even footmen placed to chaperone."

"Well then, my lord, I'd be pleased to take a walk with you, Miss Adelais, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Derek struck Adelais from the list of approved suitors mentally. "One moment, please, my lord." He went to the refreshment table and quickly emptied three cups of lemonade. "I'm good now."

He took Derek's hand and Derek's heart fluttered in his chest like a dove in a cage too small for it. "I miss the sea," he said as they walked to one of the stone benches that lined the gravel path. There were a few cushions placed upon it to remove the worst of the cold, and a footman in a wool coat stood beside it, holding a lantern aloft. "These gardens are lovely though, I can only imagine how they look in full bloom in summer."

"When Finstock is done then there will be gardens like this in Wolfe Hall." Derek told him, "by next summer it will be done and you can walk in gardens like this beside the sea."

"I miss Wolfe Hall," Stiles said sadly, "London's so different, but it's not home."

"It is to be your wedding gift, the tenancy." Derek told him, "so you can go there when you wish."

"How wonderful it is to be the earl." Stiles said with a sudden sharpness to his tone that had not been there before, "to simply bestow such things on nothing more than a whim."

"The paper work is terrible," Derek told him, "I sometimes think that I am married to my ledgers." Derek wasn't sure why he had said it, just that such honesty with Stiles felt natural and like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders to have said it.

"That would answer why your love making is so clumsy. Half the time I don't know if you intend to flatter or insult me." Stiles' cheeks were flushed, and there was an exaggerated plumpness to his lips where he had bit at them in concentration as he danced. The music was in the air, drifting out from inside with the golden lamplight, Lydia, or Caitlin, had applied a line of something dark to his lashes to better bring out the colour of his brandy butter eyes.

Derek very much wanted to kiss him right then. "You look best in a rage," he said instead. "If you have only one emotion, of course, it will be the one I do my best to inspire in you. It brings colour to your cheeks and makes your lips full."

"And I thought that you'd simply wanted to share your own distemper." Stiles smile then was impish, "my hands are getting cold now." He started to rub his hands together, "it must be nice to be an alpha," he said, "to not feel the cold so keenly."

"Did you know that Polly sent Liam a pair of socks that she made for him?" Derek told him. "She worries that his feet will get cold and he'll abandon her for a suitor who will make him thicker socks."

"You mean she hasn't made you a pair too?" Stiles asked, "she's very proud of her new skill."

"She probably thinks that I can afford to buy my own."

"There are only so many hours in the day," Stiles said, blowing on his hands now to take the chill from the skin. Derek, without thinking, took them into the clasp of his own. He could see the way Stiles eyes widened and his mouth parted just a little more before continuing as if nothing had happened, "maybe there are simply people before you on the list."

"Peter got socks." Derek faked a pout just to hear Stiles laugh.

"The music is ending," Stiles sounded a little sad, "we should go back inside." He didn't stand up though, just looked at the open glass doors as if he was afraid to be summoned back to the light. "You confuse me, my lord." 

That surprised Derek who thought himself a very simple person indeed, but before Derek could think of an answer one of Stiles' suitors, Charles Horwood, another who would not be welcomed to the house for he had such a weak chin it looked like his face started in his neck - he would not do - approached them. "Your lordship, I am sorry to interrupt." He didn't look sorry, Derek thought, he looked like he wanted to be punched in the face. "Vidame, you promised me this dance." 

"Stiles stood up, brushing out his jacket in case any dirt or dust found the fabric, "yes, Mr Horwood, I do believe I did."

Derek waited in the cold for long minutes before he went back inside. When he did he saw that Peter was clearly trapped in a conversation with the Comptesse who had her hand on his arm with and was not letting him go. It was an open secret that the Comptesse and Peter had been lovers, perhaps she sought to recommence their liaison, but Peter was not interested at all, and now he wanted to go to Lydia, who was currently in a conversation that she wanted to be in no more than Peter did. The Comptesse always had been a little vindictive and in the main hall Lydia wasn't in any danger from the alpha talking to her, so it was just a petty cruelty.

In fact, Derek reasoned in regards to her debate, it wasn't nearly fierce enough to be called a debate and most of the people at the ball, had not noticed it happening, looked more to save young Whittemore than Lydia who looked quite prepared to slap him.

"It is of no concern to you whom I marry, our engagement was broken over a year before I married, so you accusing me of eloping to hurt you is not only absurd it is crude and insulting." Her tone was like ice, but Derek was prepared to back her up if she needed it, and she knew it, if it looked like things were going to get violent Whittemore would find himself facing the Earl of Osterbrook, not Lady Hale, if he laid one hand on her he would have to flee to the continent to escape Derek's wrath. "The only person you will ever love is yourself, Jackson, and you saw me as nothing more than a trinket to be on your arm, the perfect society broodmare. For my seventeenth birthday you promised me a pregnancy though we were not to be married until I was nineteen." Derek winced at what she was saying. Whittemore was clearly getting more and more angry at reaction to what she was saying. "Instead my husband was willing to argue with his host, my father, to tell him that the life of an omega was worth more than the life of a bauble." Derek suddenly understood why beautiful, brilliant Lydia had eschewed the society season for Peter.

"He told me about Hypatia the scientist, and the queens Cleopatra and Elizabeth, amazing, beautiful omega girls who were brilliant and stood as equals with alphas." She leaned forward into Whittemore's space forcing him to take a step back away from her. "He treats me like I am a queen, a goddess because of who I am, not just a warm hole to rut into it because of what I am. I'm done with this conversation, Derek," Derek had known she knew he was there even if she hadn't acknowledged him, "you can save me from this conversation now."

Derek took a step forward and with a bow to her offered her his arm, but they were across the room before her lips stopped making their thin hard line and she spoke. "Thank you for letting me finish," she said, "I think if Peter had interfered it would have come to blows." She shook her head before she continued, "Peter would not have struck him," she qualified what she had said, "but Jackson might have aimed a blow at Peter, and then Peter would have destroyed him. I am angry at Jackson but I have no desire to see him destroyed."

"My mother once said that only those in unassailable positions of power could afford to be merciful." Derek told her her. 

Lydia looked like a goddess of fire her dark broken coloured gown, and her cloud of red curls. The sort of goddess that they engraved on temple walls and that would rule over her alpha followers with a firm hand, and let mercies drip from her fingers like rubies. "I have no issue with being compared to your mother," she said with a small smile. "I am very flattered, now if only you could be so consistent with flattering Stiles, I can see how you look at him when you think no one is looking." There was a sadness in her voice as she said it.

"He tells me that I confuse him." Derek told her, "around him, I must confess that I confuse myself."

Lydia's smile was fond and a little mocking, it looked more more real than some of the women's jewellery in the hall. "Stiles is, despite his intelligence and he is very smart, is a very simple person. he's terrified that you're going to take all you've given him away again. It's easy to live with nothing when it's all that you know and all you will know, but giving someone everything and then taking it away is amongst the cruellest of fates. Stiles has lost everything so many times before, and he has risen up triumphant from it, but it's cost him every time." Derek could hear the sadness in her tone as they watched Stiles finish his dance with Mr Horwood, with Stiles' polite smiles and soft laugh at whatever the alpha said to him. "All he has ever had of his parents is his name, his locket, and his shawl. He was left by the Montfort family to survive on scraps and forage and he thrived because it's his nature to fight, and we took him from that too." Unsure what to do with her hands she brushed them over the heavy silk taffeta of her gown. "The Montforts took his ability to trust, and so he stopped wanting things for himself a long time ago, because he never expected to get them, because again and again when he was given them, they were taken from him."

Derek didn't know why Stiles had confided in Lydia but he was glad that he had. He now understood Stiles a little better, but his own experiences of loss were different, but no less fierce. Stiles was starting to dance now with Desdemona Greenberg, and of all Stiles potential suitors she was the one that Derek questioned the least. Greenberg meant well even if her clothes were riotously coloured, she was also openly opposed to marriage, but her omega mother was domineering and Greenberg had agreed to at least make the effort in the hope that she might change her mind and find love. Instead Derek, who had known Greenberg all of her life and had even attended university with her, knew that Greenberg would never marry, not even to please her mother, she disliked children and had no interest in bedsport.

"Then what should I do?" Derek asked Lydia, "I offered him provision and he took offence."

"As would any omega in this room," Lydia agreed, "he doesn't want to be taken care of, Derek, what he wants is very simple indeed, and perhaps it's simplicity is the very reason that you can not solve it. It won't take much, just that you think like an omega. We are simple creatures after all." 

It was said that all an omega wanted was a secure hom to bear their children, a full belly and a warm hearth; that omega were the most primitive of sexes. There were church scholars who believed that omegas were the closest sex to Hell, sent to tempt good alphas and betas away from God. Omegas were not allowed to join the church, but Derek had thought that that had had more to do with politics and the church's vow of chastity than it did about omegas being demons of the flesh sent to tempt.

Then he met Stiles, a papist, and the only omega that Derek had ever wanted to tumble. "There you are, my love." Peter interrupted them, having finally extricated himself from the Comptesse. "I do believe you promised me the last dance before we retired." He turned to Derek, "young Stiles has a gap in his dance card," he said, "why don't you ask him to dance?" He looked across at Stiles who was taking leave of Greenberg now that their dance was over. "Quick before Whittemore does it to spite you."

Whittemore's name was then struck from the list of people that were allowed to call on Stiles in Derek's head. "We could return home," Lydia said, "it has been a long night for us all." Derek checked his watch, it was fast approaching three in the morning. "I shall fetch him," she said, "I am sure that he will welcome the opportunity to take off his shoes by now."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before

It took the best part of two hours for Derek to be ready for bed after an evening in society. It was not unusual for the members of society to sleep until two or three, even without a ball to excuse the behaviour, and so it was normal for things to be done before someone was ready for bed, such as unpinning and brushing out a lady's hair and unlacing the stays of her corset, but for most men they just stripped and fell face forward into their bed and stayed there until hunger or a need for the chamberpot pulled them out again. Derek had never been one to do that, he was always keyed up and anxious after a society gathering - even without the gnawing terror that Stiles would find an alpha that he wished to marry, and the terror that he might not, which might be more powerful. Then there was the clawing attentions of those who sought a husband, especially a rich one, and that included anyone that was currently unmarried and capable of child bearing, even if it was just a rote attempt. Then there were the older married omegas, and beta women who recommended that his life were not complete until he was married.

It was a trial and it left him feeling like his skin was crawling with ants. He would be the first to admit it took a few hours in the quiet of the house before dawn until he felt enough like himself that he could sleep. As dawn considered it's morning appearance he went down to the kitchens to fetch himself some warm milk, he was wearing a heavy velvet dressing gown over his sleep shirt, his breeches pulled on and buttoned haphazardly, and he had his favoured slippers on his feet. It was nearly half six in the morning, the morning after a ball he expected the housekeeper, Mrs Bridewell, and her assistant, Sarah, to be in the kitchen and no one else, for the staff were given the very early morning to leisure in these cases. One of the two of them would be happy to find him something to eat as well.

Although Mrs Bridewell was in the kitchen, Sarah was not, and sat at the large work table and dressed for the day, looking like he was ill, was Stiles. He was positively grey, drinking a dark red tea that Derek suspected was his rose hip and lavender concoction that he drank when he wanted comfort. "Why are you still up?" Derek asked him.

"A society omega rises at six." Stiles parroted off the words, "regardless of how late the omega went to bed, because nothing makes an omega's skin glow like seeing the dawn, and you will never find yourself an alpha unless you take every advantage for yourself."

"Nonsense." Derek answered, "go on back to bed, you look like you were roused from your crypt not your bed."

"I can't," There was a whine in Stile's voice. "My bed was stripped for laundry. I had thought that Lydia might share her bed, but her husband had the same idea before I did." Derek couldn't help but laugh. "I didn't need to see that, Derek, she had a paddle." It was the first time that Stiles had spoken so informally to Derek at all. He was actually using Derek's given name when even his closest confidantes called him Hale - only family could use the familiar abbreviation of his name. Derek found he liked the way his name sounded in Stiles' mouth.

"Take my bed," Derek blurted out, "Mrs Bridewell can have someone make up a bed or me. I'm good for a while yet."

"I can't take your bed, Derek," Stiles protested, "I can wait. Right now I'll be happy with a chair and a blanket. I was going to ask Betterwerth if he could take me for a nice long drive around London." Mrs Bridewell was telling Sarah, who had just entered, something. Servants weren't supposed to eavesdrop but it was often how they appeared to read their employer's minds. Sarah nodded as Mrs Bridewell added a few vanilla pods and a healthy dollop of honey to something in a pot she stirred on the range. The bed, Derek knew, would be made up very soon now, as Sarah had been sent to do it, or at least find someone who could.

"Yes, you can." Derek said, "in fact I insist, it's made up and turned down, and I'll have a word with Caitlin about letting you lie abed as long as you damn well please."

"Not Caitlin," Stiles yawned. Mrs Bridewell put a pair of heavy earthenware cups in front of the pair of them, hot milk steaming with honey and vanilla, exactly how Derek liked it best. Maybe she could read minds. "Miss Blake," Derek made a mental note but he was sure that Mrs Bridewell would have a select few words for the abigail, even if most of those words were unfit for polite society. No one in the household liked Miss Blake. Derek decided to look over her references again because they had been impeccable and Miss Blake was inept at best.

"Go on," Derek urged, "take the cup upstairs, Liam has put a hot brick between the sheets so it's lovely and toasty warm already. I don't mind at all. I never sleep easy after a ball, too many people." Derek, the more he thought about it, wanted Stiles to sleep in his bed. He wanted the smell of Stiles on his sheets, he wanted to take his bed tonight and smell Stiles on his pillow. When it had happened in Yorkshire Derek had stripped the bed himself unaware of the treasure he threw away.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest but a yawn escaped instead. "It was so easy to not be tired when everyone was there and the lights were pretty and the music playing, but as soon as I got into the carriage I just wanted to sleep."

"I'm told it's normal," Derek told him, "some people react well to the crush. It turns me into a bear with a sore paw, and I can't sleep until I feel more like myself. I've been sat by the fire in my room reading a book that my sister badgered me to read. Apart from the exoticism I see little to recommend it."

"Vathek?" Stiles asked him. "I read it in the carriage here from Yorkshire, it was a little more complicated than it should have been," he looked at his left hand, indicating where he had been wearing the sling, "it gets better."

"It can't get worse," Derek groused.

Stiles chuffed a laugh into his milk. "I can't imagine you reading something as flip as a novel, perhaps treatises of new methods of land management and other farming techniques."

"Not before bed," Derek said, "they do tend to be quite dry so unless I'm in an uncomfortable chair and making notes...." Derek left it open to hear Stiles laugh again. Derek had been wrong, and was proud to admit it, Stiles was not at his most beautiful when he was angry, he was loveliest when he laughed.

"Then I shall take one of them to bed with me." Stiles told him, "thank you, Derek, for the use of your bed." He stood up and laid a soft kiss on Derek's cheek, a simple familiar gesture as one might give a brother or sister. "Oh, before I forget," Stiles said. "I know who Lord McCall's mystery paramour is," he yawned again, stretching his arms up above his head so that his shirt, poorly tucked in as it was, pulled up to reveal a line of soft belly and dark hair that dipped below the low waistline of his omega pants.

Derek wasn't quite sure he was still listening. "Hmmm," he said, but he could not have said that it was in reaction to what he said, and not the sight before him as Stiles finally lowered his arms.

"Miss Adelais Argent," Stiles told him, and Derek's blood ran cold in his veins. "He calls her his little Allison, I know you and Peter have spoken of it, so when she told me I thought that you would want to know." With that he finally left the kitchen.

There was no way Derek could sleep now.

How could Scott? Of all the girls in England an Argent - Adelais had only been a child when Kate had burned down the Hale house and been hung for her treason but the stain stayed. There were those in the House of Lords who had thought that Kate should be burned at the stake for what she had done, and even the French, whom she claimed had paid her to do it - told them that Madame La Guillotine would be happy to consider her case. So many people died in that fire, and most of them children, and Scott wanted to marry her niece? He'd be ruined even if his father were not to cut him off. No wonder Rafael was prepared to destroy him - it was because Peter was going to kill him if he found out.

Argent must have been the pretty dark haired girl in the rose patterned dress that Stiles had been talking to. Derek didn't know how Stiles had extracted the information from her but it explained everything so neatly. Derek had thought that Scott's rose coloured view had kept the lady's identity secret simply because he had thought it was romantic, not because he had finally learned some self preservation. Scott was a good friend, he could be counted upon to be loyal, but he became an idiot when a pretty lady smiled at him.

Knowing that he was going to get no sleep now he cursed under his breath. "My Lord," Mrs Bridewell said a little nervously, "if I may, I know Lord Peter said not to interfere that he was taking care of it, but Miss Blake, sir, her waking the vidame is..." She stopped. "I don't like to carry tales, but she's been having a tray sent up to his room, sir, with his supper, it's the blandest food, boiled chicken and mashed turnip such as you would give an invalid, she says he has a weak stomach. But more than once, my lord, the plate comes back scraped clean and the whole meal is in his chamberpot. I make a point of leaving out a large plate of sliced meat and cheese, sometimes the makings of bubble and squeak, because he comes down like a rat in the night to eat when he thinks everyone is asleep.

"I worry for him, my lord, but Lord Peter tells me he has it in hand. My Lord, Lady Lydia, she bought the vidame some chocolates and it was Miss Blake that ate them, Caitlin caught her doing so, and they have to lock the vidame's wardrobe now. I know the decision to let her go is Lady Lydia's," Derek blinked at that, Lydia loathed Miss Blake and made no secret of it, that meant the only reason Miss Blake still had a job was Peter, and Peter wasn't bedding her, because he was enthusiastically and joyfully visiting his wife.

"It gets worse, my lord, she rouses him at six regardless and strips his bed. When he tried to take her to task for this she poured a bottle of perfumed oil on his mattress so it was not fit to sleep on. Caitlin tells me that she sold the vidame's shawl to a rag merchant." The shawl was genuine kashmiri wool and had been Stiles' mother's own. A servant might make a mistake over an item of clothing, perhaps giving away a chemise that was torn that the lady had intended to keep and mend, or make something from, but Miss Blake had to have known the shawl's worth as soon as she lifted it. "It was lucky that Rebecca saw the shawl and purchased it back from the rag merchant." Derek was clenching his fists under the table, for after all it was not Mrs Bridewell's fault that he was furious. He had enough clarity of thought to realise that Rebecca was Lydia's maid and she wouldn't need to visit the rag merchant for clothes, the whole thing sounded like Miss Blake had tried to steal the shawl, and Rebecca had taken it back knowing that Miss Blake could not call her out for taking things from her room. It sounded less and less like the attacks of a frustrated abigail and more like someone doing their best to destroy a person. He got the impression that Mrs Bridewell only saw a fraction of what was happening, and that Rebecca was running interference where she could - which meant Lydia had told her to.

How many times had he thought that Stiles had been snubbing him when instead Miss Blake had been present in some fashion?

"She adjusted some of the vidame's jackets, the new ones from Mrs Yukimura, took them in at the waist so he could not wear them, but she did not count on Elspeth's quick hand with a needle and thread." Derek slowly breathed through his nose to try and calm himself. Miss Blake's references were impeccable - how had he left this viper into his house? So many little questions made perfect sense now.

"Mrs Bridewell," Derek said, "thank you for bringing this to my attention. When she awakes please tell Lady Lydia that she is to let Miss Blake go, and she will receive nothing more from this house, not even a reference. I am going to take a bath before I go to her room and strangle her."

"Yes, my lord," Mrs Bridewell said, "I'll go knock young Liam up and get you some fresh clothes from Elspeth." Elspeth was the house's laundress, and now Derek thought about it how suddenly the clothes had been damaged in her care when they never had before. He had thought she was simply overworked with two new people in the house- and Lydia had a lot of gowns and she changed several times a day - but now he believed that Miss Blake had gone to the laundry and opened those seams and unpicked those hems that she might ingratiate herself to Derek. She had been so sweet and gay to Derek that he had not understood why everyone else had so openly despised her.

"Thank you, Mrs Bridewell, for bringing this to my attention." He said, "I can assure you, it will be dealt with in an appropriate manner."

It was too early to call on Argent, even unexpectedly as he planned, to nip young McCall's romance in the bud. It was likely that Mrs Argent would be any more enthused about the union than Derek was, especially as McCall was to be disinherited for it. But there was a lot of correspondence he could prepare, including one to Wolfe Hall, requesting the presence of their laundress in London to help poor overworked Elspeth.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek confronts the Argents about their daughter's affair.

The Argent townhouse was a small property in a row of similar properties in a well to do part of town. It was well kept with a pair of decorative box topiary hedges in front of the white pillars and an iron railing separating the pavement from the entrance to the cellar. Derek knocked on the door, making sure his carriage with it's crest, could be clearly seen from the window, and introduced himself to the butler explaining that he had urgent business with his master. The butler quickly vanished into the house and then returned, leading Derek to a small warm parlour where Mr and Mrs Argent were sharing an intimate breakfast.

Mr Argent, Christophe, was a tall lean man with as much silver as dark blonde in his hair, he had a shark's smile, and eyes like silver coins that fixed Derek in place. His wife, Victoire, was a strict woman with red hair as bright as Lydia's but still caught in a cap - undressed for the day. She wore a chemise dress with a dressing gown buttoned up over it, and slippers. Derek noticed that she was the alpha in their marriage, and also that she had taken the name Argent when she married. During the revolution in France, and perhaps a period shortly before it, the Argent family had been very influential and accrued a lot of wealth although no titles. So the idea that an alpha without a title had married into a family that had the capacity to gain one should not have surprised him as much as it did.

"Lord Osterbrook." Victoire said in a tone like a steel trap, "how can we help you this morning? As I assume you would not interrupt us for something inconsequential."

"To be honest," Derek told them in his earl voice, the one he used when dealing with his stewards or solicitors. "I would not darken your door for anything less than a matter of importance, nor do I wish to linger." He had his hat in his hand and had refused to give Argent's man his coat when asked. "I have come across some troubling intelligence regarding your daughter."

Victoire bristled like a cat suddenly struck with cold water. Although there was nothing of softness in the woman if anything anger and righteous indignation made the edges of her sharper. There was less give in her than a knife edge. The knife might eventually break after all. "I can assure you that any slander that you bring to my house in regards to our daughter will not be met cordially."

"I do not care if you believe me or not, but I will have done my duty as a gentleman in telling you, but I have heard from an impeccable source that your daughter has plans to elope with another alpha. My intent in this case is to prevent the scandal that this would bring to both of our families. I have no care for your daughter's reputation, but if she does such a thing the broadsheets will certainly remember that my sister did the same, and now her son is old enough to be as much as victim as the mother who chose it."

Laura had run off and married an alpha despite being one herself and that both of them were without children, rather than waiting like good society alphas, until both had outlived a childbearing partner. It was only frowned upon when they had both done their duty to God and country and provided offspring, instead of being the scandal of the season, which it had been when Laura Hale ran off with Lord Beecham, a blinded military man who was indispensable to Lord Wellington.

Laura had escaped most of the scandal as her relationship took her to the continent and the army, but it had surrounded Derek and Peter. When her husband, Lord Beecham, had died in an ambush, Laura had married Beecham's pregnant omega lover, Roland. Some of the rumours suggested that the two alphas had shared him, but Theodore, who was the image of the late Lord Beecham, was set to inherit everything, and Laura openly admitted that she merely managed the estates for him in trust. Laura adored Roland though, and treated all of his children equally, whether they were her sons in blood, they were hers to protect and spoil.

However now that Theodore was seven he was old enough to read the broadsheets of his own choice and Derek had no intention of some hack newspaperman revisiting the story with the excuse of a new elopement and making the boy upset.

"To make matters worse," Derek continued, "her paramour, although now an heir, stands to be disinherited if he continues the romance, and that of course means that your family will be responsible for him." Victoire reacted to that, a society alpha often carried debts that would be theirs now. "Of course, they will have to live on the continent, but I'm told that Italy is lovely at this time of year, unbearably hot in the summer, but you can't have everything, with all the fighting in Spain that is not an option, but it's not a worry really as they can have no children. Her paramour's father has already made motions to legitimise his bastard daughter, so it will only be the Argent family destroyed."

"Concern for your sister can not be your only motivation," Christophe said. His wife had the most intriguing ability to make the handling the simplest things seem terrifying, and that included her tea cup and saucer.

"That is true." Derek admitted, "her paramour is Auguste Scott McCall, a man who I consider a friend. I owe him an obligation as such, and I thought it polite that I deal with this personally before my uncle became involved." Christophe, who had been leaning against the mantle like the threat of violence in a standing whip, flinched.

"In that we, at least, can be in agreement." Victoire said in a calmer tone. Peter's solutions had a tendency to be permanent and final, despite his reputation being that of a rakehell and scoundrel, those in the know understood that he was a fixer of problems that required a certain amount of finesse and discretion - they were closed with a distinct finality. No one crossed Peter Hale twice.

"I have no interest in how you manage your daughter's affairs, but if she and McCall run to Gretna it will end well for no one. Past experience tells us that McCall will not be swayed, no matter what he is either offered or threatened with. He merely smiles like there is not a thought in his head and tells us that love will find a way. Where he has gotten such a fool delusion I do not know, but I can assure you that he will find no support in this endeavour. If it is to be stopped it has to be on the side of your daughter, before Peter breaks another of his bones to delay their courtship further."

Victoire took a deep breath to stead herself, her breath blowing out over her tea in temper. "Do you have any suggestions, she can be a wilful child at the best of times?"

This Derek had prepared for. "My sister, Cora, is currently taking a grand tour of Europe, allowing her both an education and the opportunity to find someone she might want to marry, or even to get the worst of her seeds sown. If you daughter has no other responsibilities that you could not manage in her absence then Lord Byron speaks very highly of Greece." Victoire's lips thinned as she considered what he said. "And if money is an impediment Lord McCall does this often enough that his father and I have long since put a stipend to ease the way of breaking the fascination."

"We do not need your money." Christophe barked.

"We could, the three of us, take a grand tour, perhaps America," Victoire agreed, "but we will not be requiring your financial assistance, but you can rest assured that our Allison," she used the pet name to remind Derek that he had no place here, "will not marry your Lord McCall, but Lord McCall the elder might do better to manage his son, perhaps he should send him to Europe."

"I have said so many times, Mrs Argent," Derek said, "and with our business concluded, I shall show myself out."

\--

Derek called into a hotel for a private lunch allowing him to calm down after the cold rage that dealing with the Argent family had left him, so it was just past two when he finally returned to the Grosvenor Street house. Peter met him in the hallway, "ah, Derek, just the nephew that I wanted to see."

Derek narrowed his eyes to look at him. Peter clearly wanted him to do something and immediately put him on edge. "Lydia has had to pop out on an errand and we just received word that a book I ordered for her has arrived. It's been paid for, it's just a matter of popping in and signing for it." It was never that simple with Peter, he was clearly up to something and it was something that he wanted Derek out of the house for. "I was also thinking that you could take Stiles with you." Peter wanted everyone out of the house. "I am sure that although Lydia took him shopping she would have just taken him to places like the corsetier, the milliner or the Yukimura's shop. I doubt that he got to attend some of the simpler pleasures of London, like Clulow's bookstore." 

Clulow's was a singular experience, it was not the biggest book store in London, and it might not have had the biggest range of stock, but it was certainly among the best. Ephraim Clulow loved books to the extent that he didn't like people unless they loved books too, and Derek knew that Peter had sold him on it because Clulow himself would love Stiles, and Stiles would love his store, and he might offer Derek a smile for introducing him to it. Derek already knew that he would do anything for those smiles, after all he only had a short time before Stiles married someone else.

"I'll fetch your damn parcel." Derek groused, it was best that right now Peter didn't learn that using Stiles meant that Derek rolled over like a puppy to show it's belly asking for a treat.

"Delightful, of course, if you decide to take your boy for a meal afterwards I can recommend a wonderful pie and ale shop."

"Don't push your luck," Derek told him, "just let me visit the necessary and I'll head back out."

"I'll inform Stiles, really you should let the boy sleep more, he looks like Hell."

"Peter." Derek growled at him, "please move out of the way before I piss on your shoes and damn Mrs Bridewell's complaints about the carpet."

"You might want to keep those predilections to yourself until after you are married." Derek just shouldered his way past his uncle on the way to the necessary. When Derek had bought the Grosvenor Street house, three years previous, - his mother had always lodged in rented accomodations in Blackfriars - he had had it completely fitted with the latest in indoor plumbing, which included a flushing toilet with a cistern. It was in a small outbuilding off the rear entry to the house, and although it made sanitation much simpler it was both extremely loud and extremely cold, so it was only used in the daylight hours. There was even a porcelain bowl with a drain and faucet so you could wash your hands. Most of the staff still preferred to squat over the grate behind the acacia tree in the garden, although he had given open permission to use it. Mrs Bridewell had said openly that it was colder than the ninth circle of Hell and sounded like it too with the rattling of pipes.

By the time he got back to the hallway both Stiles and Betterwerth were in the hall pulling on their greatcoats. he oilcloth one that Derek had purchased in Whitby had been ruined and sold to the rag merchant, but Lydia had clearly replaced it with a warm wool one such as an English army officer might wear - instead of the naval one that he had gotten in Yorkshire. "Sorry about this," Stiles said, "apparently I look like I need air of something and I can't just take the carriage out if you're using it."

"Don't apologise for things that are not your fault." Derek told him, "always place blame where it belongs and in this case that's Peter who wants the house to himself for several hours, but if you think you need some sunshine I won't deny you, I simply think that you look much improved from this morning, did you sleep well?"

Stiles had a smile that was private and a little shuttered, "Yes, my lord, I did."

"You called me Derek this morning, and I would very much like if you would do so again." Realising that he might be revealing too much of himself he quickly qualified it. "I am your guardian after all."

Betterwerth made a noise that might have been a groan, and it made Stiles' smile grow. "Well, Derek, you can call me Stiles, don't call me Władysław Staś, no one can say it right and it resembles nothing more than consonants thrown at the page in the hope the final effect would look attractive and catch in the mouth." The way he said it made the way that Miss Blake had sound wrong and ugly.

"It will be my pleasure." Derek said, taking Stiles hand and bestowing a kiss there, gloves and all, on the space between thumb and forefinger, and Stiles just shook his head at the show of manners.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bookstore and Peter's book

Clulows was a bookshop in Rotten Row with a glass front heaped high with books, and a sign that read "Books Bought" where the second placard that had once read "and sold" had long since been lost and was not missed by the proprietor. At some point the ceiling had been opened up and a spiral stair installed leading to a railed walkway and three more walls crammed full of books. The bookshop was just too small for more than one free standing book case, and in one corner was a bureau and table with Mr Clulow sat in a worn old armchair behind it. There was a locked cabinet behind him where he kept the very valuable books.

Judging by how wide Stiles eyes had gotten, when Derek opened the door, and how his mouth fell open just a little before the grin split his face Derek could tell that Peter had been right - Stiles loved it. "Oh sweet baby Jesus," he swore, finally sounding like a papist- who blasphemed more often than they cursed. "How do you get Lydia out of here?"

"I look down on patrons trying to sleep in the stacks." Mr Clulow said without looking up from his books, "I sell books not floorspace." If Mr Clulow had lived in the medieval period Derek knew he would have worked as a crotchety old monk in the Vatican library beating his illuminators with a bishop's crook for not working fast enough. He was a curmudgeonly old man who loved books and hated people, especially people who didn't plan ahead - as Derek had - and didn't bring books with them. He much preferred to trade books than sell them.

"I don't know where to start." Stiles said as Derek put his books on the counter, novels that he had finished and decided not to keep for one reason or another, some from other book sellers. Clulow counted and considered the titles, before he opened his ledger, a huge volume which took up most of the desk, and opened it to a page, putting down his pencil beside Derek's name, after making four little pencil marks - those were his credit books. 

"There's a system." Clulow said, "natural sciences is over there," he waved his hand nebulously in a way the encompassed the whole store. "History there, classics, novels, plays, music, come here boy." Stiles did what he was told. "Hands." Stiles blinked, he clearly did not understand the instruction or what was expected of him. "Let me see your hands boy." Stiles held the out and Clulow turned them over, "Clean enough, go on, have a dig, find something you fancy." Derek knew from his own past experience that if Mr Clulow didn't think your hands were clean enough he sent you out to wash them.

Given permission like that Stiles immediately went to the nearest bookcase and started pulling out books at random, flicking through the pages before putting them back. "Derek, how many can I have?" he asked, his brandy butter eyes were shining with delight.

"As many as you like," Derek told him, "well as many as the carriage can handle."

"I've got the name of a decent builder here somewhere," Clulow said, pulling down another ledger, this one much smaller, from the shelf behind him. "For that library you'll be building that one. Shall I just add him to your account?"

Derek considered it for a moment before he agreed, after all he could always remove him when he got married.

"Buy me out of stock that one will if you don't watch him, finally get to expand next door like I've been planning." Clulow didn't think of it as books sold but space and money for books he could buy.

"My uncle said you had a parcel for him." Derek mentioned as they both watched Stiles attack the book shelves, so eager to see what each held.

Clulow turned and from his locked cabinet he pulled out a box, which he opened to reveal a heavy leather bound book tooled in gold, it was a large book, obviously one to showcase it's illustrations. When Derek went to open it Clulow put his hand on the cover, "not in polite company," he said, "Remember this book is for your uncle." Derek finally realised what it was that Peter had bought his bride - a copy of an illustrated book from India that no polite household should know of as it showed a variety of alphas and omegas in many acts of explicit sexual congress.

Derek was not given to seeing the future but he had an instant vision of Stiles and Lydia crowned over the volume blushing and tittering and looking to the two alphas in the house - well Stiles would certainly be blushing - as they looked at the plates inside the book. Knowing Peter he would use the book's illustrations as a checklist, although it was, if gossip at the club was to be believed, mostly used by single alphas to ease the passage of their hands.

Peter couldn't have bought his bride something simple, Derek thought rolling his eyes, instead he sent Derek to pick it up for him, and asked him to take Stiles and Betterwerth who was stood in the corner looking like a particularly bored statue. Derek never had been amused by his uncle's sense of humour, especially when he was the butt of it.

"If you can wrap it for me," Derek told the bookseller, "and tie it tight, feel free to charge my uncle more if you feel the urge."

"Maybe instead I should put the boy on his account." For a moment Derek considered it but he liked the idea og giving Stiles everything he wanted - at least whilst he had him.

"Derek," Stiles was sat on the floor crosslegged with his back against one of the book cases, with a volume that was even larger than Peter's parcel stretched out across his thighs, "come look." The book was a medical journal on the history of anatomical study, complete with very detailed illustrations and notes. The picture that Stiles had it open on was, thankfully, the human skeleton. "It's even got pictures from history, and they're silly, can I get this?"

"Go put it on the counter," Derek said, "you can have anything you want, I told you that." Stiles closed the book and sprung up in a fluid gesture that Derek already felt too old for.

When he put it on the counter Mr Clulow scribbled down the title and author on a list, and then told him, "if you like this one, lad, you'll love this." He opened his cabinet of rare books and pulled out one that was wrapped in brown paper, "now it's already sold, and I think even he might blanch at the price if it weren't, but you might enjoy taking a look, now no hands." From a drawer in his bureau he pulled a pair of white cotton gloves, "it's very old and very fragile and I've got newsprint on my hands," he explained, then with gloved fingers he peeled back the wrapper to reveal the manuscript inside. It was not bound, like Peter's book had been, but instead was several folios stitched together. "I came across this entirely by luck," Clulow admitted as he opened it to a random page, "it looks to have been liberated from the Collegium Romano, but I purchased it from a young Italian down on his luck."

Derek could read latin and although the book looked to be written in it it was gibberish, but it was full of fantastical illustrations. "What is it?" Stiles asked, he had put his hands behind his back like Theodore did when he was told he could look but not touch.

"I have no idea," Clulow told him, "don't even know what language it's in, magnificent though, aint it?"

"I've never seen anything like it." Derek admitted, a little breathless at the sight of the pages. There were pictures of plants that didn't exist, miracles and other such things like men growing in seed pods and women who appeared to be bathing in vats of blood.

"Doubt you will again," Clulow admitted. Derek got the impression that Clulow was showing it to anyone who appreciated books enough to warrant it because he was so proud he had it, even briefly. "It might just be the ravings of a mad man, but he put a lot of work into it, enough that the Duke of Glastonbury paid over a hundred pounds for it, and I think he got the best end of that bargain." Glastonbury was a well known bibliophile so at least the manuscript, and it was wrong to call it a book - it was a medieval manuscript of some variety- was going to someone who would know how to take care of it. Clulow wouldn't have let it go for a thousand pounds to someone who wouldn't.

"Speaking of the fantastical," Clulow continued, "have you read Mrs Shelley's book "The Modern Prometheus" I got a copy just this morning for sale," and like that he changed the subject away from the manuscript.

\---

Stiles restricted himself to only six books, two novels including the Shelley one which sounded interesting, the medical journal, and one more on the natural sciences, and two books in French including the tragic verse Cromwell by Balzac, whose name made Stiles bite both lips to restrain his laugh. Derek himself only took one book besides the one for Peter, and the name of the builder that Clulow recommended for the library. Most of the books that Derek chose to keep found their way to the huge library at Osterbrook. Derek knew that he wanted very badly to take Stiles to Osterbrook, to show him the rebuilt house where he had grown up, where the vast majority of the books from all of Derek's estates could be found, he wanted to show him it's huge hothouses which were used for both exotic plants and growing fruit regardless of the season, and how much larger they were than Wolfe Hall's small orangerie of which Stiles had been so proud. He wanted to show Stiles the Elizabethan mazes and gardens, and to summer there away from the crush of London, but it was not to be. Stiles would marry another.

"Are you hungry?" Derek asked him, that train of thought would lead to madness.

"I could eat," Stiles agreed, "what about you, Betterwerth?" Betterwerth remained implacable as a wall, he didn't answer, he wasn't used to his charge paying attention to him, it was meant to to be the other way around. His job was to be unnoticed until he needed to intervene. Stiles just smiled at him from across the carriage - Betterwerth was sat next to Derek. Stiles was happy and Derek was the one who made him so.

"There is a pie and ale shop near here. The food is simple but good, or we can go to a hotel and eat a proper meal, but it's past time for high tea." They had spent nearly four hours in all in the bookshop.

"Pie works for me," Stiles said, "and ale would be wonderful. I've drunk so much wine lately, and I don't even like wine much." Derek laughed at Stiles' complaints, happy to be theo ne who made him happy. "Sure, I know I grew up where they made ale and gin, but wine tastes like vinegar to me."

"You don't talk about your childhood much." Derek said softly.

"What is there to say," Stiles said, "my father died before I was born, and my mother died in childbirth. Lady Montfort hated children so my mother's man Jasper raised me until Lady Montfort died, then apparently Jasper isn't fit to raise me so I was given to the housekeeper Mrs Talbot, she and Mrs Cox made sure that I was educated. Lord Montfort died when I was nine and then they just took everything from the estate except me. THe only thing I learned there was that given the opportunity everyone would leave an omega behind, they either died or just didn't care." He was suddenly angry and Derek hated it now. Not so long before he would have done anything to make Stiles angry, because of how lovely Derek thought it made him look, but then he saw him laugh and realised he was wrong.

"When Stephen died, well just before he died, I got a package of papers from Lord Montfort to my grandfather. I didn't even know I had one, so I wrote to him." Derek could see Stiles crack as he faced him. "You saw what happened when he wrote back, well, when his man did. Apparently Baron Stilinski does not care for fortune hunters who are so crass as to pretend to be the child of his dead son with nothing to corroborate it." That was what Derek had seen that night in Yorkshire when stiles stared at the sea in the freezing cold pouring rain. "I didn't want money, we could have made more gin if we needed money, I just," he snorted back the lump in his throat and his eyes were wet with unshed tears, "I just wanted family." He was crying now, "I just wanted someone."

To hell with the chaperone, Derek thought, he crossed over to the other side of the carriage so he was sat next to Stiles although it was desperately improper, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into his chest, to give Stiles a safe place to shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the book that Clulow lets them see is the voynich manuscript and there is no record of it being in London in the early 1820's it was "lost" at the time before being "discovered" in the early 20th century, although it's been kicking around since the 1420's so it did exist. It is entirely written in a language no one can read and has illustrations of the bizarrest things. I think it might still be one of the millenium problems so if you crack it - and most of it is online for anyone to try - you win a million dollars.  
> It's super cool and you can see some of it here 
> 
> http://www.voynich.nu/


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek visits his sister.

Stiles was lacrimose during their impromptu high tea. He had refused to go back to the house with the same singleminded stubbornness that had kept Wolfe Hall alive though he had clearly lost all appetite. He accepted a plate of cold pork pie and piccalilli. He ate it in small mechanical bites and washed it down with a mug of ale he didn't taste either. He didn't make any comment about what had happened in the carriage, just ate in silence. Just as they were leaving, as Derek put a hand on Stiles back to help him into the carriage, a boy stepped out of the alley by the shop. Both Derek and Betterwerth prepared to either grab the pick pocket or pummel the attacker if he made a move towards Stiles. London wasn't as safe as Staithes, after all, and Stiles had been attacked there.

"Mister," the boy said addressing Stiles, he looked too clean to be a beggar, his clothes well kept and mended and he was wearing shoes unlike most of the urchins of London. "D'ya want a puppy?" Of all the things that Derek had thought that the boy might say he hadn't expected that. "I left the gate open and next door's pug got into Madame's spaniels and well," the boy pulled a face, "the master don't want 'em, I found homes for some of em, but the master says he'll drown 'em if I bring 'em back." The boy knew what he was about, playing to Stiles' obvious upset and sympathies.

"All right then, lad, let's see 'em." Betterwerth said, and the boy's face split into a grin before he ducked back into the alley and brought out what was obviously an expensive pet basket, "they're weaned, mister," he said removing the old blanket to show the puppies asleep on another piece of blanket. It had clearly been cut in two for the basket. There were five of the strangest looking puppies Derek had ever seen, they had the pug upturned nose, well most of them did, combined with the long silky pur and floppy ears of the spaniel parents, and they were a curious hodge podge of long and short hair, colours that ranged between liver and white of the spaniel and the black and tan of the pug.

Derek did some basic arithmetic, he had four nephews and there were five puppies. He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out two guineas. "I'll take them all," he said giving them to the boy as Betterwerth took the basket. 

"You don't have to pay for 'em, Mister," the boy said, "I just didn't want 'em in the river." The boy tried to give the money back, but Derek shook his head.

"For the basket," he said, "get yourself something to eat, lad, and get warm before you go on home."

"Thank you, Mister, thank you." The boy said, before he ducked down the alley again.

"Peter's right," Stiles told Derek as he rolled his eyes, "you're as soft as butter, what are you going to do with five mongrel pups?"

"I thought that would be obvious," Derek told him as they climbed into the carriage and then taking the basket from Betterwerth sitting it on the bench next to him, "four nephews, four pups, and," he reached into the basket, the puppies were awake now that their blanket covering was gone, and trying to climb over each other to get out, but they were nudged back in. Derek rooted through for the runt, the prettiest one with the longest hair, flipped it over in his hands to check it's belly, and then offered it to Stiles, "this one's for you."

"Miss Blake won't like that." Stiles told him, desperately wanting to take it but refraining. He was sure someone would take it off him.

"I fired her this morning," Derek told him, "she'll have had the day to clear out. Take the bitch," The puppy was wriggling like she was swimming trying to get to Stiles, mouth open and tongue to the side of her mouth in concentration. Stiles finally took her in his hands, tucking her into the open collar of his greatcoat where it was warm. "She's yours to do with as you wish."

The puppy had wriggled herself up so she was almost in the curve of his neck and licking at his jaw and anything she could reach, Stiles curled down into her. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Mr Betterwerth," Derek said, "please inform the driver we are making a call on Lady Beecham's house." Betterwerth seemed to mumble something that might have been "as soft as butter" before he passed on the message.

\---

Lady Beecham was not a paragon of fashion, there was too much scandal associated with her name to ever truly be accepted back into society, and she didn't care a jot. Although it was approaching eight in the evening the house was still a bustle of activity when Derek called, inviting Stiles to join him, with the basket under his arm, the blanket tucked in around the puppies again, they were crying in but he remained firm.

"Uncle Derek," Theodore barrelled into the hall, dressed for supper, Laura and Roland ate an early supper with their children rather than have them eat alone in the nursery the way most society parents did.

"I've got something for you," Derek said crouching down, "and I came here just to share it with you." He put the basket on the floor, "where's your mama?"

"Billy's not happy," Theodore told him, "but look," he opened his mouth to show his teeth, "my teeth came in," he looked across at Stiles, "who's that?"

"This is Stiles, he's staying with me at the moment." Derek told him.

"He's got a puppy!"

"Puppy?" It was Elijah who popped his head around the door jamb and into the hall way. The boy, one of the twins and the shyer one traditionally, came toddling into the hall. He was barely steady on his feet wearing little velvet breeches and a jacket tied with a ribbon at his neck. His brother Josiah was right behind him, dressed the same but in brown, and both of them had something smeared across their shirts and faces, repeating what his brother had said.

"Actually," Derek drew out the word, "I've got puppies too." He pulled back the blanket to show them. The boys squealed in delight and made a dive into the basket.

Laura Beecham was a beautiful alpha woman with the same dark hair as her brother, she wore a simple sprigged muslin with a receiving cloth across one shoulder and a fat baby pressing his face into it with handfuls of it. "Puppies, Derek, really?" she asked.

"Thank you uncle Derek!" Theodore gave his uncle a quick embrace before he lifted one of the puppies, the only one he could get a grip on, and the puppy seemed as eager to lick his face as it's sister had been with Stiles, the sudden lurch from the dog saw Theodore on his back on the carpet, and the other puppies joined in now that they could escape the basket.

"They're lap dogs," Derek told his sister as the puppies, started going after chubby little hands. One of them, as if to prove Derek wrong, squatted down and pissed on the stone floor, but one out of five was decent odds. "They were going in the river if I didn't take them."

"You always were as soft as butter." Laura sighed, "now will you both be staying over tonight?"

"We can stay a while, if that's is well with you, Stiles?" 

Stiles eyes were fixed on William, even with his hand supporting the puppy asleep in the collar of his great coat. Derek half expected him to answer baby the way that the boys, now running amok in the parlour with their nurse, Miss Krasikeva, and their father, amongst the puppies, had said puppy. "I'd like that, thank you."

\---

Derek helped Laura and Miss Krasikeva put the boys to bed, leaving William with their father and Stiles in the parlour. Miss Krasikeva firmly grabbed each one as they passed her, stripped them to their skin, pulled a night shirt over their head and wiped their faces with a wet cloth with the ease of practise and the precision of a military attack. Each of them was tucked into bed before the footman brought the puppies, in their basket, back in from outside, now that they were fed, watered and emptied, before putting it beside the fire. Laura said firmly that the puppies were not to get into the bed no matter how the boys cried. Laura might have appeared stern but she then showered the boys with kisses, and understood that having three boys in the same bed would not leave room for four puppies, and it was likely to be Theodore that ended up on the floor.

"I can't believe you got them puppies," Laura scolded Derek as they went down the stairs, knowing the next day would be full of the havoc of rambunctious boys plus puppies and Miss Krasikeva in the eye of the storm like a point of calm, her apron full of mending, half knitted socks, and scones, ruling it all like a beneficent goddess. Derek had always like Miss Krasikeva, nothing bothered her unflappable calm, and she was always ready with a pair of shears, a needle and a thread, or a darning mushroom to tackle any emergency that might arise, whether that was prying up a vent to rescue a tin soldier, or tacking together a jacket torn in play before their mother found out.

Of course this was the same woman who pulled on a pair of breeches to conquer "India" with the boys in their country estate without care of who saw her, she had been many terrible foes in their games, and was unconcerned about mess until it was time to get clean.

"You lifted those puppies," Laura continued, "just with the sole excuse to give that omega in the parlour one so he might smile at you."

"I," Derek couldn't really deny it, even though he wanted to.

Laura had their alpha mother's stare exactly. She didn't even need to say anything before Derek gave in, if Laura had have stayed in Spain with the army Derek believed she would have forced Emperor Napoleon to back down from his ambitions and apologise just by staring at him that way. "You folded in front of him because he's in heat and every part of your alpha instincts wants to show him how good a provider you are." Derek couldn't answer. He had seen Stiles break down, which made more sense if he was in heat. Certain books aimed at alphas liked to picture omegas in heat as sex crazed like a cat, unable to do anything but ask for their alpha to fill them. The reality was much more prosaic, they were warmer which was why it was called heat, but mostly they were hot, itchy and irritable, given to emotional outbursts and sudden rages for a couple of days once a month, and then returned to normal as if nothing had happened. Sometimes the only outward sign of it was how much alphas suddenly wanted to please them.

Of course Laura would recognise it, she'd been married to an omega for nearly eight years and, unfashionably, knew her husband very well indeed. She turned and patted her brother on the shoulder as they reached the parlour where Stiles and Roland were talking. At some point Roland and Stiles had switched positions, so Roland was playing with the puppy at his feet with a length of ribbon she wasn't interested in and Stiles, having shucked off his jacket and vest, had Billy asleep against his shoulder. The baby's dark hair showing through the gaps between Stiles' long fingers.

Laura just looked at her brother and shook her head as she laughed. He was gone and she knew it. Derek knew it too. The image of Stiles holding a baby, and not just any baby but one that looked like Derek. In that moment Derek made the perfect realisation. He didn't want Stiles to marry anyone else, he wanted him to marry Derek. He wanted to give Stiles children. He wanted to see Stiles with his belly rounded with fat babies with Derek's hair and Stiles' nose. Laura recognised her brother's realisation and just shook her head at him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Blake's treachery is, at long last, revealed

It was late when they returned to Grosvenor Road, Stiles decided not to change for dinner and honestly Derek didn't really care, even though there was a strange stain on his shoulder from the baby. He didn't think that they had held dinner back, and if they hadn't something could always be thrown together for them. Mrs Bridewell always kept the fixings of bubble and squeak in the cold store in case someone missed dinner.

Betterwerth took the puppy, that Stiles had called Hypatia and whom Roland had dressed with a ribbon around her neck that she might be isolated from her brothers, outside to relieve herself as Derek and Stiles went into the front parlour. Stiles flopped into the chair beside the fire with a whummpff noise like he had been deflated. "I don't know why I'm so tired," he admitted.

"Some days are harder than others, and my sister is exhausting." Derek poured them both a glass of brandy. Now that he had decided that he was going to court Stiles he had no idea how to talk to him.

"You are a terrible brother," Stiles told him, "Your sister is enchanting."

"Laura is as enchanting as a queen in a Russian folk take," Derek drawled, "Billy liked you though, " Derek pointed out, "he's often off with new people, he was three months before he decided he liked his mother."

"He's a pudding," Stiles smiled to himself, and Derek wanted to immortalise the smile to himself and lock the world away.

"If he was going to say anything else Peter cut him off. "There you both are, it seems that I owe my wife a guinea, she said that you had probably just called in on Laura, and I said you'd both be halfway to Gretna by now." Stiles blushed clear to the roots of his hair.

"Did you get done what you wanted?" Derek asked archly, "the reason that you needed everyone out of the house this afternoon."

"My afternoon caller," Peter said with a smile, "was Detective Inspector Perkins from the metropolitan police. I worried that there might be some struggle so I thought it best to reduce the amount of people who might get in the way."

"What did you do?" Derek growled from between gritted teeth.

Peter's gesture of rolling his eyes was exactly like Derek's own. If anyone questioned their blood ties they only had to see them both roll their eyes. "Always so quick to blame me, nephew, but it was simpler than that. I had all my ducks in a row so I took action and had Miss Blake arrested."

"What?" Stiles was shocked at that.

"A good question, my dear boy, considering it concerns you. Of course her name wasn't really Miss Blake, she took the name, we think, from an obituary, it seems the late Miss Blake really was an exceptional abigail. The woman who pretended to be her was a known mountebank paid to enter our home to get you into the clutches of a gentleman of your acquaintance. She spilled everything as soon as she realised that the gig was, to put it in the colloquial, up."

"Who was she working for?" Derek asked, his knuckles were white around the lead crystal tumbler in his hand.

"The point was to make Stiles life so very miserable here that he would run away, and removed from the safety of our bosom, and the watchful eye of Butterworth-toast." Peter loved to show off and this was no exception, there would be no getting the information from him until he was ready to reveal it all. Derek wanted him to get to the point already. "He would then be taken by a pair of hired muscled thugs and passed along to her employer, one that the police had already incarcerated in Newgate for embezzlement and theft, a Mr Adrian Harris, and with our imposter's testimony he'll likely hang."

"But why?" Stiles said, "I'm not worth anything to him, I never did anything to Harris, except have Boyd run him out of Wolfe Hall once."

"It's not so much who you are, Stiles, as what. As an omega your value will be through marriage."

Stiles understood that, "he would have taken me to Scotland and forced me into marriage, but why?"

"Considering the amount that are missing from the ledgers Harris would have burned through Stiles dowry of fifteen thousand in almost no time." Derek said.

"If Miss Blake's testimony is to be believed," Peter continued, "Harris got in deep with a criminal gang as he had something of a taste for opium, and more than money which he'd been siphoning to them for years to feed his addiction, they were using him to smuggle brandy in from france, using Wolfe Hall's barrels to do it. Seeking protection from this criminal element he spent some of their money buying information. He found Stiles."

"What can I do?" Stiles asked.

"Yourself, nothing" Peter said, "but Harris wrote to your grandfather, Wladislaw of Lusatia, who is, by all accounts a formidable gentleman who, though not one of the wealthiest in Europe, not one to cross. His son, Ioan, also called Johan, was your father, Stiles, and he hoped the prince would offer him sanctuary, a comfortable life away from the criminals he had been entrenched with. They were the ones who tried to snatch Stiles on the road from Whitby."

"I wrote to my grandfather, I was rebuffed." Stiles protested, "he told me he had no interest in fortune hunters."

"I have a little more information than that," Peter corrected him, "I wrote to his highness myself when we learned about Stiles explaining as much information as we had at the time, but I am yet to receive a reply, but I have gotten information from my network. It's possible, Stiles, that instead of writing to your grandfather you actually wrote to your uncle who only inherited his barony when his brother, your father, died. If you were an alpha, Stiles, or even a beta, you would inherit everything and he would be left with nothing but what you gave him."

Peter took a breath before he continued, "even as an omega you could make a claim for the princedom, if not the barony. If would go before the Bohemian emperor, but if Wladislaw supported it you could end up ruling one of the largest parts of Silesia, especially if you were already married to someone who had no obligations of their own in regards to property." Stiles was horrified and it showed on his face. "So your uncle always denied that you were even born but your grandfather was willing to listen to Harris, it was your grandfather, not your uncle, who established your dowry."

"I thought that that was Derek," Stiles said.

"No," Peter told him, "it was because of the dowry that we learned that there was even a ward in the estate Montfort left. His contribution to your dowry was the tenancy of the completed Wolfe Hall, because he knows how much it means to you. As far as I've learned from my network of informants, Stiles, your grandfather received word that you were to be born from your mother when she informed him of his son's death, and that either boy or girl you would be named for him. That's all he knew, it's possible that until Harris wrote to him that he thought that you were dead, but Montfort's death got in the way of his plan to snatch you then, that and the black gentleman at Wolfe Hall who ran him off with a rifle. It meant that you were with us before the prince responded and you were guarded by more than just that one gentleman, so when you came here he hired Miss Blake to get you out into the open."

"So what happens now?" Derek asked, refilling Stiles' glass with brandy. He looked like he needed it.

"There will be a trial, the best attempts will be made to keep it out of the papers, Rebecca, Caitlin and Emily might be asked to testify, but Miss Blake, or whatever her real name is, has given more than enough information to see them both in Newgate for a very long time, even before they add omega smuggling. They were trying to take you across Europe after all. Never mind the embezzling, smuggling, working with the French in a time of war, working with a criminal gang, and pretending to be someone else, then there is the death of the real Miss Blake which might have been an unlucky coincidence for her but needs to be investigated properly."

Peter took a breath before he continued, "I owe you an apology, Stiles, I knew reasonably quickly that Miss Blake was not what she pretended to be but to ensure your continued safety I allowed her to maintain her charade. I did my best to prevent the worst of her games, making sure Caitlin, Rebecca and my own wife interfered as much as possible, but you came to harm under my care and I apologise for that." Peter never apologised, the machinations were perfectly within his character - the apology was not.

"Well, damn," Stiles said, not sure what else to say, "maybe we should have gone to Gretna."

\---

In the days following Miss Blake's arrest the Hale home took on a certain ease and serenity that it had previously lacked, Lydia had completely taken Stiles under her wing without a rival for his affections. Betterwerth may have taken over the puppy, which Stiles had called Hypatia's, training, but it was mostly teaching her to ask to be let out when she needed to go out, and trying to stop Stiles and Lydia over feeding her treats so that she would not want her meals, although she probably ate better than the most of London, or feeding her things that were bad for her like chocolate. Derek could have sworn that the old boxer gained more grey in his hair in that one week than he had in the previous ten years.

Derek had found himself back in the easy comfort of his ledgers because knew he knew that he wanted to court and marry Stiles he had no idea how to talk to him, other than to watch him with a delight that he had to hide, watching Stiles try to explain to the puppy that toes were not for chewing.

His health returned quickly without someone preventing his sleep and scraping his meals away. Within a pair of days he became comfortable enough in the house to tell Mrs Bridewell which foods he did not like and that dripping might work better in her pastry than butter because he found it a little dry.

Mrs Bridewell was even willing to give up her kitchen to let him cook, watched closely of course, and then complaining how few ingredients that he used, but letting him write down the recipes into her book when they proved just as tasty.

Without Miss Blake to interfere Stiles fit into Derek's household with such ease that Derek never wanted him to leave it, he had found him a home and wanted him to know that it was his forever, whether that was arguing about novels with Peter - who was teaching him to play chess - discussing the natural sciences with Lydia, or running amok in the sculpted winter garden with Hypatia at his heels and he whooped and laughed, but when Derek tried to tell him this it felt like his tongue was suddenly too large for his mouth and the words were absent entirely.

The next event in Stiles social calendar was a visit to the opera that Derek had originally planned to avoid as he loathed the opera only slightly more than he hated the theatre. Derek had informed Peter however that he would be attending, accompanying Stiles. Peter just laughed at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the start of a much longer chapter but when i came to type it up i realised it was much longer than the other chapters and I could break it into two.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the opera

People did not watch the opera to watch the performance, but rather to see and be seen. Certain nights in the opera were about who was attending and with whom, such as the opening of a new show, or the rare appearance of a retired soprano. The whole point of being there was that everyone was there. It wasn't about the music or spectacle, although as a Salieri opera there would be spectacle, but who was with whom and what everyone was wearing and who was watching.

Peter loved the opera.

Stiles was wearing a light grey pink colour tooled in silver and the taffeta of his coat was polished to a dull sheen. Mrs Yukimura had clearly outdone herself with his outfit, solid white but for the coat, and a cabochon of rose quartz at his lace cravat. To say Lydia's gown was cream was like saying that the sea was wet, it was cream but the fabric was detailed with stripes of roses bordered by thick burgundy lines, the low neckline which skirted decency, was ruffled with an off white lace and a burgundy velvet ribbon, and the panels of her split skirt were decorated with the same lace and ribbon in a continuous figure eight pattern with a net apron embroidered with lace roses. The net and lace fell in waves at her elbows around her wrists, and the same fabric was used for Stiles cravat and at the cuffs of his shirt. The whole gown served to frame her decolletage and the ruby on a net ribbon at the hollow of her throat that looked like it floated there. Derek liked that Lydia was so beautiful because it meant that no one looked at Stiles.

People arrived at the opera usually between it starting and the end of the show's ballet. Derek didn't know anyone who had actually sat through an entire performance, or even knew what the show, a new production of the very successful Axur, was about.

Stiles, his hands almost completely covered by his lace cuffs, whispered to Lydia behind his opera glasses that he wished that he had brought a book with him as he could not abide all this interminable singing. "The point of opera," Peter said, "is gossip, ignore the people on the stage."

"I don't know," Lydia said, "the baritone there in blue is beautiful, I could watch him all night." She had clearly said that to rile her husband, they often appeared acrimonious because it was what worked for them. Peter's lips formed a thin jealous line, "oh don't look like that, darling," Lydia continued, "all those protestations of love that he's singing aren't aimed at that soprano, but that tenor with the lovely calves."

"They are lovely," Peter admitted, "but as I was saying, the show is the audience, look, there's Lord McCall sat with his mother and a face like thunder in Lahey's box. His father is with them, but the one who looks fit to escape the box by vaulting over the rail is Vidama Bartlett, it looks like Rafael is trying to find his son a suitable bride, and Lady McCall is trying to stop the whole thing escalating into violence. Nevertheless Vidama Bartlett will be associated with young McCall in the broadsheets tomorrow so her social capital will rise making her more popular. You have already been associated with us."

"Is that the Duke of Glastonbury?" Lydia asked, "sitting with a woman who is definitely not his husband."

Peter looked across to them, "that's his sister," he sounded disappointed.

"Come the interval," Derek explained, "everyone moves about, people with higher rank stay where they are, so I, and you as my ward," Derek looked at Stiles, "will stay in the box. Lydia will take Peter to get refreshments to show off her gown so they will visit as we are visited."

"Don't we need a chaperone?" Stiles asked.

"We won't be alone long enough to unless we lock the door. We can also invite people to sit in the box with us." Derek told him, "there is a hierarchy to this, but it's all interminable and we won't stay for the whole show unless you want to."

"That poor composer," Stiles mentioned, "thinking people might actually want to see his show."

"He knows," Peter told him, "however he lives with the Austrian emperor in his palace, so I don't think he cares, he certainly doesn't want for money. This show has been performed all over the world."

"It's not that bad," Derek wanted to take that little moue of distaste from Stiles' mouth. "Look at the stalls, they are here for the performance."

"Box four," Lydia said, "I almost didn't recognise her, but that's Desdemona Greenberg, she looks like she's having raptures." Greenberg was fixed on the stage and the man singing, clearly enjoying the show. Unusually she was wearing a tasteful gown in a lovely sage green colour, and even her hair appeared, from this distance, perfectly dressed. "What happened there?"

"She can't see colours properly," Stiles told them, "I asked her about it at the Bellingham ball, and her maid wouldn't tell her that everyone was laughing at her, she just didn't know, so obviously she's got a new maid."

"How awful, not being able to tell that you're the laughing stock of London." Lydia said, shaking her head, "I mean I knew she didn't listen to gossip, but I thought that was just because it was so hateful about her."

"Well, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to tell her. I sent her to the Yukimuras," most debutantes were fiercely protective of their modiste - not Stiles though. "Her last one had figured out she couldn't tell how awful the colours she wore were and was using her to get rid of bad dye jobs. She was the only person at the Bellingham's ball that I danced with that wasn't making plans for when we were married, or what to do with my dowry." Derek suddenly liked Greenberg a lot more than he had, he would have to invite her for supper soon.

\---

The curtain fell on the intermission, "Come along, Peter," Lydia said standing up and smoothing out her skirts and panniers from where she had been sat, "I saw a lady selling bon bons when we entered, and my dress is far too wonderful to not be seen by everyone in London."

"Certainly beloved, we must remind London that we are the most beautiful couple in all of the empire." He offered her his arm and they swept out of the room in a cloud of perfume.

"Do we have to stay in here?" Stiles asked, "I'd like the opportunity to stretch my legs a little. These seats are unforgiving."

Derek nearly knocked his chair over with the back of his knees in his haste to stand, offering his elbow to Stiles so violently he almost struck Stiles in the face with it. Stiles just smiled, "a pity I can't just hold your hand," he said, "I'm far too clumsy for these London manners, I believe I nearly hit you in the arm with my face when I stood up. How would we have explained a bloody nose? I'm sorry, we had to go home the vidame broke his nose trying to get out of a chair."

"It would just add to your mystery," Anything else that Derek might have said was interrupted by the rude arrival of Lord McCall who burst into the room with his finger already pointing accusingly.

Auguste Scott McCall was a tall man on the cusp of being broad, but not old enough for it to show in anything but his shoulders. He had inherited from his father dark skin, hair and eyes, but from his mother curls that formed cowlicks in his hair that were the envy of half of London. He had, left over from a childhood accident, a crooked jawline and a split eyebrow that gave him a rakish piratical air according to the ladies of London. "You've got some balls, Hale." He said, completely ignoring Stiles in his anger.

"He's an alpha," Stiles said, leaning forward into McCall's space, "so I'd like to think so."

McCall tried to shoulder past Stiles, which just made Derek angrier. Even if it were not improper to talk that way in front of a vidame, although it was, ignoring one to whom you were not introduced was worse. If he laid so much as a finger on Stiles Derek would break his nose and it wouldn't have been accidental. "I can't believe you, Hale, I thought we were friends." Derek still had no idea what it was what he had supposedly done, and hoped his expression told him that.

Stiles however, was having none of it. "I hope that you do not speak to all of your friends like that." He corrected him, "because I doubt most of them would be as indulgent as Derek has clearly been."

McCall then fixed his ire on Stiles, "this is of no concern of yours, Vidame."

"I beg to differ, my lord, you are the one who interrupted us. You are the one who came in here to harangue my suitor." Derek noticed the word and his heart swelled in his chest like he could not breathe. "Over some slight to your excessive ego that you haven't even gotten around to mentioning, therefore it is my time you are wasting."

"He went to the Argents," Scott exclaimed, "and told them about Allison and I."

"Good," Stiles answered, "if he hadn't I would have."

McCall hadn't been expecting that. "As my friend he should have supported me."

"And he did." Stiles countered, "by preventing you from making the mistake of a lifetime that would have seen the two of you living hand to mouth on the continent. So boo hoo, her parents took her away, the alternative was not to be considered. No true friend would allow you to do that, so perhaps you should get over your own sense of righteous indignation and thank him, because he went into the house of the people who burned his house down on your behalf, and if not then get out of our way so that I can continue being escorted to get something to drink, because I am certainly thirstier now than I was before you appeared."

Derek didn't say anything, there was really nothing left to say - Stiles had covered it all rather succinctly - but they were prevented from leaving the box by the reappearance of Lydia who was escorting a shy girl in a pale pink mantua, and one of the loveliest lace fichu that Derek had ever seen. It was worth comment on it's own. "Lord McCall," Lydia said sweetly, "how lovely to see you here, I don't think I've seen you since my wedding, Derek, this is Eugenia Rose, a friend of my sister Kitty. Her escort had to leave suddenly, and I offered her a seat in our box to watch the rest of the opera, you don't mind do you. Peter said we could see her safety home after. I hope that is well." Miss Rose blushed prettily and Derek saw something happen that before had only occurred around fortune hunters and unsuitable girls, Lord McCall was enchanted. "Lord McCall, will you be joining us or returning to your parents?" And never again did Derek doubt that Lydia was an conniving and manipulative as her husband, he was just glad she had yet to turn it on him.

Perhaps that was why Derek didn't notice the sandy haired man in the royal box who stared at them so intently as Peter guided in a footman with a tray of champagne.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter!

Derek sat at his desk reading through the day's correspondence when the butler, Mr Bridewell, knocked and entered. "My lord," Derek moved his foot to try and dislodge Hypatia who was currently chewing on his slipper, no matter what he said or how he moved his feet. "There are a pair of gentlemen from the home office asking to speak to you about a matter of some importance. Shall I let them in?" Derek's immediate thought was that Peter had done something.

Derek nodded, closing his ledgers. "Send them in, and arrange for someone to bring us refreshments, also." Under his desk he held out his leg to show his foot, the leather slipper and the puppy happily hanging from it by her teeth. Bridewell walked over and dislodged the puppy before picking her up, and popping her into the pocket of his coat, before going back into the hall.

The two men he showed in were very different from each other, one looked like an old soldier, with greying blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes and a waxed mustache that formed two twists on either side of a strong nose. He carried himself much like Laura's alpha husband, Deucalion Beecham, had, with the same stiff posture and assessing gaze - the one that had looked Derek up and down and known his every flaw - even his weakness for chocolate.

The other man was the perfect image of the petty functionary with a large forehead, his dark hair swept back from it, a weak chin and a roman nose that dominated his face. There were gravy spots on his jacket and, unlike the man beside him, he looked in need of a stronger refreshment than tea. "Your lordship," the functionary began, "I am sorry to disturb you at home. My name is Charles Dexter Ward and as your man said I am from the home office." The man behind him said something in a language that Derek did not understand, clearly talking to the functionary beside him, who snapped something back in the same language. "This is Prince Władysław of Lusatia. He believes you are holding his grandson hostage here in England to get something from him. It is something we have to investigate but he insisted on accompanying me."

Derek heaved a sigh of relief, it wasn't about Peter. "The prince's grandson is here," Derek said, standing up and moving around to the front of his desk, "but he is not a hostage, I have taken him in as my ward, and as such he is treated like a cherished member of my family." He went to the bell pull, tugging it so that he could send for Stiles who he didn't think was even up yet.

Dexter Ward repeated something back to the prince did not seem impressed with the explanation, and then said something back. "I'll be honest, my lord, I'm only here because the prince is angry, and he's putting pressure on the Bohemian ambassador, and the ambassador is putting pressure on the cabinet who is pressuring the king, and he's putting pressure on the home office, and I'm the only member of staff who even comes close to speaking Bohemian and that's badly, and it's the only language we have in common because he actually speaks something like Silesian, and I speak Bohemian really badly, I only know it from my own tour of Europe twenty years ago. I don't know if I'm trying to save the boy or drag him back by the ear and I don't know if I've explained anything to him well at all."

It was Emily that brought in the tea, placing it and a few scones, a pot of jam and a large pat of butter on one of the ones tables near the fire, with a low curtsey. Derek told her to fetch the Vidame as Dexter Ward tried to explain that the boy was still asleep and that he was going to be fetched and everything was fine and to have some tea.

The prince refused the tea. Instead he sat stiffly in one of the couches in the study and growled something at Dexter Ward that made the man wince. Derek was mostly glad he had no idea what was being said. He just watched the prince crack his knuckles one by one, over and over again, like he was prepared to give both Dexter Ward and Derek a fierce beating with just his fists.

It took perhaps ten minutes of uncomfortable silence - apart from Dexter Ward gratefully slurping tea from his cup like he was sentenced to death, before Stiles to come in. His hair was wet, as if he had been in the bath, and he was dressed to receive company. Caitlin had clearly outdone herself in getting him ready so fast. "You wanted to see me," Stiles asked.

At that the prince reacted, his face softened for a moment and his eyebrows came together to look the boy up and down. "Władysław?" He asked, "Władysław Staś?" The second word, Derek noticed, sounded like Stiles.

"Do I know you?" Stiles asked him, his gaze was just as assessing as the prince's was.

The prince said something else that sounded like it ended in Claudia, Derek couldn't have sworn to it though. "He says you look like Claudia," Dexter Ward translated.

"I know what he said," Stiles told the official before he answered the prince back in the same language. There were pauses when Stiles spoke, like he had to stop and think of a word before he continued, and there were a few heated exchanges between them before the prince leaped out of his chair with a cry and pulled Stiles into a bear hug that looked fit to break his bones.

"They're talking too fast, my lord," Dexter Ward apologised, "I can't keep up, but it's not bad, the prince is happy, he's proud to see him all grown up, he can't get over how much he looks like his mother. He has her eyes. The vidame is angry that he decided to show up now. I don't think he realises he's been in London since November looking for him. He only found him because he was mentioned in the broadsheets as being at the opera last night with you."

There was more dialogue between them. "He's calling him Jaskier, I think it means dandelion or little weed. He thinks that someone on his staff was stealing his mail, he fired someone who was working for his son, the one that's alive, the prince doesn't know what he would have done if he had known."

Something else passed between the two of them, the prince sounded angry and then Stiles barked right back at him. "The prince wants him to come back to the ambassador's house, the vidame is having none of it." Dexter Ward's eyes opened in surprise at something Stiles said. "That was just rude."

Whatever they were arguing about Stiles wasn't giving an inch. "The prince thinks he's as stubborn as his father. He has his temper."

"He has his jaw and hands," Derek mentioned to himself, it was easy to see with the two of them standing face to face. The nose was different, the prince had a patrician nose, and his eyes were blue where Stiles were brown. The prince's mouth, though mostly hidden by his mustache, was thinner, but the jawline, the shape of the face those were the same.

"Something about a piece of jewellery." Dexter Ward said, Stiles undid his cravat and pulled out the locket he always wore, a heavy golden thing, holding it out on it's chain for the prince, who opened it with a thumbnail, then with a beaming grin kissed Stiles on both cheeks. Then the prince looked at Derek, the smile vanished and he said something in what Derek guessed was an angry tone. "The vidame can't stay here, apparently you're not to be trusted, he received a worrying letter."

"Tell the prince that I did not send the letter, the man who did is a known criminal and confidence trickster who is currently in Newgate prison awaiting trial."

"The vidame's just said that, apparently you saved him." Stiles was arguing with his grandfather, a man who looked like he could snap him in two with just one of his hands. "Oh," Dexter Ward said, and everything went quiet as all eyes turned on Derek.

"What did he say?" Derek asked.

"I can't stay here," Stiles said, "unless we are married."

"YES!" Derek said so fast and loud he surprised himself. "I mean if you wish to be married to me, if it is what you want."

"I didn't think you wanted me," Stiles face was beautifully open, the image of hurt and hope and a hundred other things that Derek could spend a lifetime trying to decipher. "You kept trying to introduce me to every eligible bachelor in London."

Dexter Ward was now translating for the prince.

"You are my ward, I wanted you to be happy. I didn't think you'd want me, all we do is argue." Stiles crossed the room in a few deliberate strides and kissed him quiet.

It took a moment for Derek to realise what was happening it went by so fast. One minute Stiles was arguing with the prince who looked ready to wrest Derek's head off his shoulders with his bare hands, then Stiles was in his arms and had his lips pressed against Derek's own. They were hot and dry and as soon as it was there it was over and Derek leaned forward and kissed him again, his hands pulling at Stiles' jacket to bring him closer as if he might never let him go. Stiles was unused to anything but slobbery baby kisses so he did not know what to do, giving his kisses an innocence that Derek found charming as he dragged his own lips over Stiles.

Behind them the prince said something and it took a moment for Dexter Ward to translate. "None of that without a licence."

"A special licence," Stiles corrected, "I'm Catholic." Traditionally to marry a couple had to have the Banns read, that meant that they announced the marriage during a church service over the course of three weeks, allowing anyone who wished to object the opportunity to do so without the centuries of knife fights and murders that had taken place for centuries before the law was put in place. The provision of licences allowed people to marry without the banns being read within six months of the licence being issued by the Archbishop for a fee, although it had to be performed before noon by a clergyman. That was how Peter had married Lydia.

A special licence removed those restrictions allowing a couple to be married by a magistrate at any time of the day as long as they could find one to perform the ceremony.

The alternative was to escape to Scotland, Gretna Green being the first town across the border, where a couple only had to announce themselves as married for the law to recognise it. The English government, however, had a history of denying the legality of those marriages when one of the couple's parent's objected, especially where there was money or land involved.

THere was nothing to be done. A special licence would need to be purchased and for that there was only one solution, but it would mean letting go of Stiles long enough to do so. Stiles had no such compunction. "PETER!" He yelled loud enough it might have been heard in Lusatia.

Peter came running in like the hounds of Hell were at his heels, Lydia right behind him, before he stopped her with an arm across her chest, both of them looking like they were ready for battle. Peter was prepared to shield his wife from whatever danger he thought Stiles to be in, and right behind them was every footman in the house.

Taking in the sight Lydia was the first to recover, seeing Stiles in Derek's arms, the exhausted looking Dexter Ward and the military stance of the prince. It was Lydia who took a step forward, pushing Peter's arm out of the way, and curtseyed to the prince muttering "at last," under her breath even as she assumed the role of the perfect society hostess. "You must be Stiles grandfather, " she said, "he has your jaw and hands." It had taken Derek longer to see the resemblance.

"He also doesn't have a word of English, your ladyship," Dexter Ward said, "he's insisting that the boy marry if he is to remain in England, and the earl volunteered. The vidame thinks that Lord Hale might be able to secure them a special licence."

Peter looked so relieved that it took years for his face. "I got one of those weeks ago," he said, "I knew as soon as those two got their acts together we'd need to get them married before they got in their own way again. You," he turned to the footman, "go get Magistrate Warne, and we can have these two married by tea time."

Dexter Ward repeated this to the prince, but Derek just kissed Stiles, his promised, his own, over and over again before someone thought to separate them.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the requested epilogue with fat babies

epilogue

 

"Alexander!" Stiles called out, "come away from the edge," the child in question, just shy of his fourth birthday and with enough energy for six was trying to chase the ducks that were now swimming safely on the surface of the pond beside Osterbrook hall. His nurse was moving in an intercept fashion, but he was too close to the edge for his father's liking.

"If I have to come down there," he said trying to climb out of his chair, using both arms of the lawn chair, feeling too hot, too fat and too pregnant to actually manage it without help, but Alexander was having none of it and worse yet his younger sister, Claudia, was running down the shaped bank towards him. 

"ALEXANDER!" Stiles shouted finally getting out of the chair, "come away from the edge."

"Yes papa," Alexander couldn't pretend he hadn't heard him, but his father, Derek and his great grandfather, Dzadzia did and came out to see what was happening.

"Alexander," Derek only had to say it, there was no shouting from that parent, "come here and bring your sister."

Claudia knowing that they were talking about her lost her momentum down the lawn and fell face first into the grass, starting to wail. "I've got it," Derek said, crossing the lawn at an angle and picking her up.

Osterbrook suited children, it was a large house a mile from the nearest village, and apart from the bathing pool had no where that was particularly dangerous. For the most part Stiles kept them on the other side of the house where there was a fine flat lawn leading to a folly of a Turkish temple, surrounded by trees where it was easier for their nurse to catch them, where Polly would sit with Stiles, helping him, even if Mary was more likely to run with Laura's older boys amok in the woods. Miss Vane and Miss Krasikeva were run ragged and with the new one due they were going to need a third nurse. However the day was hot and close and Stiles was fat and heavily pregnant so he wanted the breeze from the pool. Alexander wanted to chase the ducks. With Claudia on one hip, telling Derek about the ducks, Derek managed to duck over and lift his son unto the other hip. Reassuringly the youngest one, Ioan, was lying on his belly on a rug beside Stiles chair quite content to try and reach the dog sleeping just out of the reach of his hands.

After they had married the prince had declared London vastly unsuitable and wanted Derek to prove he could keep his grandson in the luxury the prince expected of him - Osterbrook was perfect. It was a large house built around a medieval keep with an Elizabethan palace built into it. It had, to Stiles delight, not only two large hot houses, but an orangerie on the roof. There were acres of wild forest and clipped gardens, stables, a farm, follies and a pond that their bedroom looked over. It was close enough to the town of Derby for Derek to do what business was necessary and still return that night, and far enough from society that no one bothered them unless they had to.

It was perfect for raising children, so as soon as he had seen it he had badgered Derek to send for Miss Vane and the Kyds who were taken in as Stiles own, Derek never told him he had planned it all along.

"Oh," Stiles said and then looked down at his now wrecked breeches, slung as they were under his belly. "Of all the times," he told his bump with the ease of someone who had done this three times already, "now?"

He rolled his eyes, "Sibyl," he shouted, "the baby's coming."

\--

Derek Hale had assumed that when his husband had told him, a few days after his marriage, that he wanted to have more children than Laura, his sister in law, he was being facetious. He wasn't.

Stiles loved being pregnant, and it suited him, giving him a rosy complexion and making his hair shine with health, unlike some he had no problem with his teeth, or even anything beyond some mild nausea, and Derek loved seeing Stiles pregnant, although this one, currently nicknamed Lamb, was a bit sooner than they had planned. Derek liked nearly two years between the births, Lamb seemed more keen on just over one. 

Stiles reacted to birth after Alexander with the sort of calm detachment of someone who knew what they were doing and wanted to be surrounded by people who were also calm and knew what they were doing - which did not include his babies, all of which were given great big loud smacking kisses, even Ioan who had no idea why, his husband, who immediately turned into a nervous wreck, or his grandfather who thought the answer was Calvados brandy.

Lydia had, when she had given birth to her daughter, a child she still - two years later - hadn't forgiven Peter for ruining her body with, insisted on reading all of the literature from all the doctors and making sure her midwives knew it too. She was attended by the queen's own midwife, and eventually threw them all out and let Sybil take over.

Sybil was calm, mostly she sat there, told them they were doing fine, and knit. By the time the baby made it's appearance she had made it something, a shock birth which was fast was a hat, a normal birth gave her time for a hat and a small jacket, Claudia, a winter baby who had not wanted to come out, had a hat, a jacket, a coat and booties and mittens.

So Derek sent someone to find Laura and Roland who were out riding with their boys, Mary and Oliver, and Miss Krasikeva, so there would be someone to look after all of the children, Lydia had taken her daughter, Carmilla, to London, she was very like Peter in that she liked clothes and bossing people around.

Stiles just went upstairs, took a bath, pulled on a comfortable nightshirt and picked up a book, closing the door behind him and Sybil.

\---

"Where's Papa?" Alexander asked his father for the seventh time that hour. 

"The baby's coming." Derek answered, "it takes a long time for some babies to come, but by tomorrow you'll have a new brother and sister."

"I don't want one." Alexander said, "I asked papa for a kitten. I've got a brother and a sister, I haven't got a kitten." Across the parlour Laura sniggered to herself, she had had that conversation herself a few times, although Roland and she had currently stopped at six children, the last set being twin girls, who were just older than Alexander and had gone riding with their parents and were now playing on the floor happily with their dolls, and Claudia. Lucy was brushing dolly's hair, but Mina was brushing Claudia's.

Dzadzia was bouncing baby Ioan on his knee and over the five years of his grandson's marriage - Derek admitted they weren't getting rid of him without a coffin nearly four years ago - he had learned English although he still spoke with a heavy accent. "You can ask Papa for a kitten for your birthday, Jaskier." He said, he called all of the children, and their papa, Jaskier, it was a fond nickname, like pet, or love. The new child, Lamb, would be Jaskier too.

Fatherhood presented Derek with a whole new world, he had not known what to do when Stiles had delightedly told him that he was pregnant with Alexander, starting to treat his husband like he was made of spun glass, but Stiles was having none of it, then he had presented him with a wrapped red faced bundle with a pair of eyebrows so like Derek's own that Derek's instinctive reaction was to laugh - he then spent nearly an hour apologising to Stiles for laughing.

Now he wouldn't change it for a world. Well, he could live without Alexander's constant asking of why, but that was a phase all of them would go through. He felt so full of love he had no idea what to do with it, and how to express it, even though he made a point of telling the children as often as he could that their father loved them. Hypatia fat and bored with the whole affair moved from her place before the fire and sat on Claudia's skirts to she took her fist out of her mouth, covered as it was in drool, and starting patting at the dog. She was too young and too unco-ordinated to do more than make general slaps in her direction. Hypatia was used to this and just moved her eyes and ears out of the way.

If Alexander looked like Derek, which he did, he had the same eyebrows, ears and cheekbones that he would eventually grow into, Claudia looked like her papa, with the same big brown eyes, upturned nose and soft mouth, her hair was a mass of chestnut coloured curls, that looked like Peter's, but her temper was Derek's to a tee. Alexander asked, he was curious, into everything attempting to talk by only a few months old, Claudia sulked and never asked, she didn't say much, just went along with whatever the others wanted for her, until she didn't want to anymore and she was a devil in her upset. Ioan was approaching the age of walking at nearly a year old, but he didn't really feel the motivation yet, all three of them hadn't bothered much with crawling.

Stiles had filled his house with laughter and children and taken the stain from Osterbrook, and for that Derek could never repay him. Now he just had to wait until someone came down to tell him that the birth was a success and both father and baby were fine. It didn't stop Derek worrying though. People died in childbirth, even bright, healthy people like Stiles.

\--

Derek slept that night in the nursery, curled up in the bed with Alexander and Claudia, her curls in his mouth, and Hypatia at the foot of the bed.

"My lord," Miss Vane said, shaking him and whispering, "wake up," she was smiling.

"The baby?" Derek asked.

"Babies," Miss Vane corrected with a grin, "twins, both girls, they're both sleeping now, as is their proud papa, do you want to come meet them?"

Derek slithered out of the bed so he could get up without waking the two sleeping there, and took the stairs from the nursery to Stiles' bedroom in his night shirt and stockings. Stiles was still in the birthing bed, a smaller version of his own bed that allowed the midwife easier access to him, blanket pulled over his chest, head thrown back and snoring, thighs still wide apart, and there on the main bed were two babies, smaller than he had expected, but that was normal with twins, and naked but for a napkin each. "Talia," he said to the one on the left, knowing that he and Stiles had agreed that as soon as they knew that Stiles was pregnant again. Talia opened her mouth a few times but seemed content to sleep, holding on to her sister, the other with Stiles nose already formed and a fuller mouth, didn't have a name yet, so he just reached out and touched her dark hair, already thick, and murmured, Lamb, and both of them had the low set omega ears peeking out from a newly knit cap, one exactly like her sister's.

He had a thought then, he had three beautiful daughters, two of which were omegas. He hadn't thought of that, they were going to grow up and alphas were going to court them, alphas would attempt to seduce them. They were never going to London ever. Decision made he just sat on the floor next to his husband, placed his face next to the outstretched hand and kissed the palm before he pressed his cheek to it. "I love you," he murmured, "but I admit I'm not looking forward to the next three weeks as we try to decide on a name."

He knew what was going to happen when Stiles woke up - there was a harangue there when he wasn't so tired. Twins had not been expected. He should go down, Derek thought, wake the household and let them know that Stiles was fine, that he was the proud parent of twin omega girls, but right now he just wanted to sit there next to him, knowing that Miss Vane would be burning the sheets, and had cleaned them up. He just wanted to bask in family, knowing that there were three beautiful children in the nursery, and on their bed, the one he shared with Stiles, two more sleeping away the hot summer night.


	27. the wedding night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka the porny epilogue I promised you in December finally arrives

Derek's wedding to Stiles took place with such haste that it would be all over the broadsheets tomorrow that it was scandalous and clearly the boy had been compromised and that perhaps they should look for an autumn birth in the Hale household. Derek, Lord Osterbrook, did not care for such things, he just knew that the Prince had agreed that Stiles could marry him and that Stiles had to be pried from his lap and his sweet kisses long enough that they could find a judge to marry them.

Luckily Peter had some vowels with a local judge he wasn't above calling in to get his own way.

The prince had opinions, but Derek was to learn the prince had many opinions on a variety of subjects and was not above complaining to the poor beleaguered Dexter Ward about them - at length, in his own language, which Dexter Ward barely spoke. 

Lydia was, of course, delighted, and whisked Stiles away, even as he tried to remain for more kisses, soft drugging chaste kisses and the weight of him on Derek’s lap was a wonder, even if his ass was bonier than it looked and his sitting bones were exactly the right shape to dig into his thighs.

When he returned Stiles was glorious in white and gold and a deep dark red, he wore a white pants with gold detailing at the knees, a vest that ended scandalously at the hip, like that of an alpha, and the red jacket that Derek had seen before, but never worn. It ended at his breast bone and was oxblood red, embroidered with gold wire, the sleeves open to the elbow and showing soft cream silk lining, and the neck above the military collar was a delicate fall of knife pleated chiffon that fell in waves around his neck. He wore no cravatte, and both shirt and vest ended there, showing the lovely line of his throat.

Derek's mouth went dry and was not sure that he had not lost feeling in his legs.

Peter had dragged him to change, “you can't marry dressed for a day in front of your books” and Hypatia, excited at all the furore was running in circles and yipping happily.

Now he stood in the drawing room in front of the fire feeling like he were aflame at the image of Stiles standing next to his grandfather, who had a face like doom but had consented and that was enough for Derek, and Judge Raworth who had made it clear he had a pork dinner waiting for him so could everyone please get a move on.

And then Stiles smiled and the entire ceremony passed Derek in a blur, he spoke when he was prompted but all he knew was Stiles hands were in his and Stiles was smiling at him like the entire sun was fit to burst from his skin, and he was Stiles’ and Stiles was Derek’s and it would be forever. Stiles would be Marquis Osterbrook and Stiles would be the heart of his lands and Stiles would bear his children, although Derek was of the opinion that they were sticky and best left to their own devices, he wanted Stiles to have his children. He wanted Stiles to host the parties society demanded they’d throw and he'd do it because he wanted to show Stiles off. He wanted the world to know they were married and that he was so blessed.

The Prince did not look so impressed.

Dexter Ward looked like he needed a stiff brandy.

Lydia and Peter looked like they were, after this, going to the opera, fully dressed for the height of society, Lydia, as always, glorious, in a dark blue gown caught here and there with flecks of glass to catch the light so the skirt looked like a field of stars, and Peter’s jacket was a matching fabric over a pale blue vest that made his eyes bright. He looked proud, or relieved, it was hard to tell, as Lydia whispered into his ear. He laughed and it was nice to his uncle laugh in a way that wasn't mocking or designed to be cruel. Derek had thought he had forgotten how.

There was a supper, but Derek could not have said what it was that he ate, only that Stiles sat next to him and kept bursting into smiles and squeezing his hand, now that he could. He barely touched his dinner, Derek remembered that, and then Lydia was there, taking him away to their bedchamber and Derek's mouth went dry and Peter would not let him have brandy.

\---

When he went to his bedchamber Stiles was already there, wearing the scandalous night rail with the gold ribbons at his collar and cuffs. However there was nothing decorous about him, for he had climbed onto his hands and knees and raised his hips, with his ass towards the door, and the night rail pulled back to show the curve of his hips and his thighs. 

Derek's legs nearly collapsed under him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, tugging the rail back over Stiles' legs lest Derek die.

"Is this not how you want me?" For a second Derek thought Stiles was funning him, that perhaps he had gotten the idea for the jest from his Uncle Peter, for this was his sort of humour. But there was a look of hurt that flashed across Stiles feature. "Have I offended you?"

"Oh, love," Derek said, sitting on the bed, still fully dressed in his coat and cravat. "I could never not want you." He reached out to brush Stiles' hair from his forehead, wondering for a moment how he looked both so young and so very debauched.

"Lydia said I was not to worry, that you would make it good for me." His lips were covered with something clear and slick, and Derek wanted to kiss him, "and i told her she was worrying over nothing, for although I am untouched I am not unaware, I know how to present myself."

Derek took a moment, "Stiles, who taught you about congress, did you learn it from a book?"

"Derek," he used the name dismissively, "Husband," that word was new and wondrous but said with the same tone, "I grew up in Yorkshire, I spent my time around animals, even in Spring, I know how the cow entreats the bull to mount her."

Derek opened his mouth to say something, nothing came out, he tried again but the words were long gone. He took a deep breath and looked at Stiles' eyes, so earnest and golden in the lamplight. "We are not beasts of the field, beloved," he said and that word felt so right in his mouth, "will you permit me to show you how it is done between two people, between alpha and omega?"

Stiles bit his bottom lip and thought about it, then his look became a little impish, "will it be better than that of the beasts of the field?" he asked.

"I don't know," Derek answered, "I've never lain with a sheep." 

Stiles' burst of laughter was a thing of beauty. “Baa-aa.” He added. His smirk was so adorable, and there and there was the faint scent of roses on his skin, and now there was nothing to stop Derek so he kissed his bride. Then he kissed him again, even as he tried to pull off his shoes with his feet so that he could rest his hands on Stiles’ waist, soft and hot under the the sheer fabric of his night rail, and Derek could not believe this was his. He had wanted Stiles from that first moment he saw him in the kitchen in Wolfe Hall all those weeks ago, but he had told himself he could not touch one of his servants, then there was the disappointment that Stiles was a beta and he could not give him the children Stiles so very much wanted. Derek had thrown impediments into his path with abandon, because he could not believe that he could have Stiles, but he had never thought to ask Stiles what he wanted. Although that first week it might have been to push Derek to his death.

Stiles mouth was soft and warm and he made the most delightful noise of surprise when Derek flicked his tongue against the slightly open seam of his mouth, so Derek did it again, and again, dipping his tongue just between his lips and Stiles leaned back almost against the pillows so Derek had to lean forward to maintain the kisses, and then Stiles’ clever fingers found his cravat, fussing with it, although he could not see what it was he was doing and might have simply been making it worse. His was not a blushing bride, his was a bride who wanted more, but did not know quite how to get it. 

His hands felt so large and brutish against Stiles’ waist, with the delicate fabric, that more than anything Derek wanted to peel from him, the one that showed almost as it concealed. And his hands felt the lack when he took them from Stiles, to finally remove his cravat, and jacket, so Stiles clever fingers could make quick work of the buttons of his waistcoat. 

Derek’s mouth found the curve of Stiles’ jaw with his lips, scraping over it with his teeth as Stiles pushed the waistcoat open and over his shoulders, tilting his neck back, before Derek’s fingers found the ribbon at his throat and tugged it open baring more skin for his mouth, then his hand went to look for Stiles’ waist and found his hip instead, the fabric of his night rail tugged up around his knees, so Derek jerked his hand down further, the other supporting his weight, so he did not crush Stiles underneath him. The skin of his palm met the skin of Stiles’ knee and pushed up, his hand cupping the thigh and squeezing. Stiles was tugging Derek’s shirt out of his pants with one hand, the other clutching Derek’s neck like if he let go, even for a moment, Derek would leave, or worse, stop.

“We should be naked,” Stiles said, in a low breathy voice, like suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room, “naked should be a thing, that we are.”

“are you sure?” Derek asked, against his collarbones “if you’re not ready to be naked in front of me....” 

Stiles pulled back, took the hem of his night rail, first shifting around until he was no longer sitting on the fabric and pulled it up over his head, it caught on his wrists so he was stuck for a moment with his arms above his head and his body draped across the bed and counterpane. It was a sight that made water pool in Derek’s mouth, this long lean boy draped across Derek’s bed, with high tight pink nipples, the same colour as his lips, and Derek wanted to put his mouth upon them. He stood up and peeled off his pants, stepping out of them of and leaving them on a puddle on the carpet, using his toes to remove his stockings so he could help Stiles with the ribbons on his night rail.

Stiles was hard, male omega on the whole weren’t given to a lot of body hair and their genitalia was smaller than it would be on a beta or alpha male. He lacked testicles, having ovaries tucked up inside his body, but he could still maintain an erection and his orgasm caused him to ejaculate. Derek knew all this academically but he had never lain with a male omega, omega weren’t as typically promiscuous so unless an alpha married one it was unlikely that they would have had the opportunity, but Stiles cock and taint were damp with sweat and slick. The few curls there were stuck together with wetness and there was a faint trail to his navel. He had long slim legs and a few of his ribs were visible, and that part of Derek that was not overcome with lust made a mental note to feed him more. He even had beautiful feet, Derek thought, and did not miss the way that Stiles looked at Derek’s own crotch with a look of surprise.

Stiles had grown up surrounded with betas, and beta women for the most part, he had probably never seen a cock other than his own, and omega cocks were smaller and slim, a vestigial organ that nevertheless was just as sensitive, where Derek was an alpha, so he was given to coarse body hair and his cock and balls were larger, swollen and hard now at the idea that he would lie with his new bride, and there was a moment of apprehension, not fear for Derek did not think Stiles would ever think Derek would hurt him but more that he had no idea what he was to do or what was to happen, except for a rudimentary education about the mating practises of animals, and Derek was big. It was a natural moment of “how is that going to fit” before Stiles decided nature designed it that way for a reason, or something equally simple. Then he licked his lips again and pulled Derek in for another kiss.

It was the sort of person that Stiles was, as he pushed back against Derek, as if trying to swallow him whole, sucking on the line of Derek’s jaw, scratching his fingernails over the back of his neck, the other hand resting on Derek’s thigh as if he was wary to touch anywhere else. If he had gotten his education from the beasts in the field he might not know about such things, but Derek had no such compunctions, his thumb fell down to flick over Stiles’ nipple and Stiles made the most delicious sound as it did, so Derek did it again. “I could kiss you there,” Derek said.

“But they’re for feeding babies, I don’t know why you’d want to, nothing’s going to come out yet.” Stiles said and Derek laughed again, before he pushed Stiles back against the pillows of his bed and dragged his mouth down along that perfect column of throat, mouthing at the line of it, before he kissed one nipple, then the other, before sucking it into his mouth. “Never mind,” He groaned, his hands on Derek’s head as he arched his back, rolling his hips against Derek’s thigh. “You’re right, you’re so right.” Derek chuckled and tugged on the nipple in his mouth with his teeth and delighted in the groan it garnered him.

“Can I,” he asked, “Can I touch you here?” His fingers slipped across Stiles’ taint to his hole which was soft and buttery with slick against his fingertips. 

“Oh please,” Stiles told him, trying to rock down, “it feels so, I,” he threw his head back as he started to rock back against the fingertips running over his hole, not dipping in, just rubbing, making slow lazy circles. Stiles’ own hand fell down to his cock, pulling on it without any delicacy.

“So beautiful for me,” Derek murmured as he trade between Stiles’ nipples, sucking and pulling on them, fingers wet with his slick, he wanted to bring them to his mouth, he wanted to smear it across the nipples he was lavishing, but it would have meant pulling his hand away and he very much did not want to. Instead he slipped his fingers up into the soft buttery warmth and watched Stiles give a loud exhale. “The first time I saw you,” he said, “I think I stayed in Yorkshire so long just to look at you….” he sucked a kiss mark unto the meat of his pectoral, “my beautiful bride, my Stiles, my omega, my love.”

“Derek, love, husband,” Stile was grunting, rocking back on the two fingers twisted up inside him. “Keep, keep doing that, oh blessed virgin,” And Derek could not prevent the laughter that escaped him for of all the curses that Stiles could have chosen that one was most appropriate. “Would I, would I be a beast of the field if I wanted you to mount me?”

“Baa!” Derek said and tugged Stiles hips against his own, “because I really want to mount you.”

He pressed the head of his cock against the slick opening, “tell me if it’s too much,” Derek said with the last of his will. He did not believe he could stop past his point if Stile told him to, he wanted too much and was so close, but Stiles didn't’ tell him to stop. His body arched into Derek’s hands and Derek maybe lost his mind a little bit, it was like he was foxed but Peter hadn’t let him have champagne or brandy, even though he had asked. Derek understood why now, because this was wondrous and new and he was full of awe and he might have missed it if he had have had a head full of brandy.

He was rocking, unsure of when it had started and Stiles had his arms around his neck as they rocked together, pressed into the pillows with his thighs against Derek’s sides and the noises he was making were enough to drive a saint to sin.  
Of course Derek wanted this, why would anyone not want this, this beautiful boy, this beautiful omega, his bride, his marquis, his own. He would wake up in the morning with his face buried in this dark hair, with these breaths washing over him. He would watch Stiles body ripen and bloom as fat sticky babies grew inside him, and he would have those moments of art when Stiles would rise in the night to feed his child and would look like the madonna and infant and he would laugh with him and bicker with him and drink his foul tasting teas and it was a lifetime and it was the rocking of his hips, getting faster, more strident as he tried to make a place for himself inside Stiles. And Stiles was clinging just as hard, grunting noises being fucked out of him as he tried to force more and more of Derek into him like they might, if they strained just hard enough, become one being.

With an ah-ah noise Stiles came, clenching tight around Derek as his knot swelled to lock him in place. With what energy he had before he came Derek rolled them so Stiles was on top and Stiles, with some flash of inspiration rolled his hips down, back unto the knot and arched his back.

Derek might have blacked out. He wasn’t quite sure. He did know that his orgasm had robbed him of his wits. Stiles was draped over him, held in place by his knot, but they were almost glued together by Stiles ejaculate and slick, and Stiles was laughing, tiredly, exhaustedly. “you know,” he murmured stroking Derek’s hair as they came down from the high, “I might have been on to something just raising my ass and hoping.” And Derek laughed too, because he was just so happy that if he didn’t laugh he’d probably explode.

“Do you think i’m pregnant?” Stiles laughed.

“If not, we can certainly try again” Derek rolled his hips, “and again,” he repeated the gesture “And again.”

“We’ve got a lifetime to get it right.” Stiles kissed his forehead. “It’s a good job I was never staff.” He said.

“I make a point not to dally with the staff.” Derek agreed.

“Which is good because otherwise we’d have none, I’ve decided to be quite jealous of you, I don’t think anyone else should ever see you like this, just me.” He was a little imperious as he said.

“And Liam.” Derek added. “He is my valet,” he added, qualifying it for Stiles. “He sees me naked all the time.”

Stiles rested his head, sweaty and flushed, into the curve of Derek’s neck, “I’ll think about it,” he said, his face cracking with a yawn. “I want to sleep,” he said, “then do this again, in the knotting chair, by the fire, possibly using the mirror so I can see.” And Derek, his arms draped across Stiles, just kissed his head, “go to sleep, love.” He said, “I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
